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COPVRIGHT DEPOSrr 



A BOOK OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 



•The 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK ■ BOSTON • CHICAGO ■ DALLAS 
ATLANTA ■ SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



A I'>C)()K Ol- 

ENGLISII LITLlR/VTURE 



SELECTED AXD f-DITKn 

BY 

FRANKLYN BLISS SNYDER, Ph. D. 

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY 

AXD 
ROBERT GRANT MARTIN, Ph. D. 

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY 



THE MAC .N 1 1 LEAN CO.N 1 1 'A XV 
1916 

AU ri|*tl rfirtv4 



\\ 






Copyright, 191 6, ^ 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 
Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1916. 



,/,-■ t 



A 



FEB 10 1916 

©Ji,A4 [S7t)4 



\ ' ^ 



VRVA'.WK 

In prci)arinK this xolunu-, priiiiarilx iiiti-iKicd for college courses in the development 
of English literature, the editors ha\i- triid to give to the most imjiortant men a repre- 
sentation more adequate than they hu\c been accorded in previous volumes of the 
kind, and so comprehensive that whoever uses the book will find a considerable range 
of possible selection. In addition, the editors have included enough work by men of 
secondary importance to fill the gaps between the larger figures, and to make this text 
adequate for any survey of English literature from Chaucer to Meredith, save in the 
fields of drama and fiction. Fiction has been omitted for obvious reasons. The drama 
would have been excluded entirely, had it not been felt that some teachers would be 
glad of a specimen miracle play. An appendix containing brief biographies of the chief 
men represented, and bibliographical suggestions, may be of assistance to those who 
desire to use the volume without an accompanying history. 

In certain respects the texts here presented have been standardized. Punctuation 
has been modernized; the spelling -or instead of -our for words such as honor, labor, 
etc., has been adopted; except in a few obvious instances, the full form of the weak past 
participle in -ed has been used throughout the volume. 

The thanks of the editors are due to Professor R. E. Neil Dodge, of the Univeisity 
of Wisconsin, and Houghton Mifllin Company, for permission to use the Cambridge 
text of Spenser. Stevenson's Aes Triplex is taken from the Thistle edition, published 
by Charles Scribner's Sons, the authorized publishers of Stevenson's works. The debt 
of the editors to such standard works as Skeat's Oxford Chaucer, Child's Ballads, and 
Lucas's Lamb, will be recognized by all who use the book. 



THE END or rm: middi.i; ages 

Geoffrey Chaucer page 

Thf Prolojjuc I 

The Nun's Priest's Talc ii 

Thf PardoiH-r's Talc 19 

lialadc dc Hon Conscy! 25 

Chaucer's Coniplaiiit to His Purse 25 

Anonymous 

Piers the Pldwnian 26 

Anonymous 

The Chester Miracle Play of Noah's Flood 27 

English and Scottish Popular Ballads 

Edward .52 

Kemp Owyne .15 

Sir Patrick Spens 34 

The Wife of Usher's Well .54 

Ruliin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 35 

Robin Hood's Death and Burial 38 

The Hunting of the Cheviot 39 

Bonnie George Campbell 43 

Sir Thomas Malory 

Le Morte Darthur: Caxton's Preface 44 

Book XXI 45 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 
Edmund Spenser 

The Faerie Quecne: Letter to Raleigh .... 

Book I, Canto i 

Canto iii 

Canto xi 

Prothalamion 

Eliz.mjkthan Sonneteers 
Sir Th{)nl\s Wyatt 

The Lover Compareth His State 
Hknry Howard, Earl of Surrey 

Descriptit)n of Spring 

Sir Philip Sidney 

Astrophel and Stella: Nos. i, 31, 30, 41 
Edmund Spenser 

Amoretti: Nos. 24, 34, 03, 70, 75, 79 
Samuel Daniel 

Care-Charmer Sleep 

Mkilvei. Drayton 

Since There's no Help 
William Sh.\kespeare 
Sonnets: Nos. 18, 29, 30, a, 64, 65, 66, 71, 73, 98, loo, iit), 146 

vii 



49 
51 
56 

57 
06 



69 
69 
69 

71 



CONTENTS 



Thomas Carew page 

Ask Me no More Where Jove Bestows 115 

He That Loves a Rosy Cheek 115 

Sir John Suckling 

Constancy 116 

Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? • • • i^^ 

Richard Lovelace 

To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars 116 

To Althea, from Prison 116 

James Shirley 

A Dirge 117 

Robert Herrick 

The Argument of His Book . 117 

Upon the Loss of His Mistresses 117 

Corinna's Going A-Maying 117 

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 118 

How Roses Came Red . 118 

To Daffodils 119 

Night Piece, to Julia 119 

Upon Julia's Clothes 119 

An Ode for Ben Jonson 119 

Grace for a Child 119 

To Keep a True Lent 119 

George Herbert 

Virtue , 120 

The Collar 120 

The Quip 120 

The Pulley 121 

Richard Crashaw 

In the Holy Nativity of Our Lord God 121 

Henry Vaughan 

The Retreat 123 

Peace 123 

The World 123 

Edmund Waller 

On a Girdle 124 

Go, Lovely Rose! 124 

Andrew Marvell 

An Horatian Ode 124 

Abraham Cowley 

The Change 126 

The Wish 126 

The Swallow 127 

The Thief 127 

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset 

Song: To All You Ladies now at Land 127 

Caroline Prose 

Sir Thomas Browne 

Hydriotaphia, or Urn-Burial 128 

Thomas Fuller 

The Good Schoolmaster 132 

The Life of Queen Elizabeth 134 

IzAAK Walton 

The Complete Angler 137 



cox TENTS xi 



Jerkmy Taylor page 

Holy Dying 142 

John Milton 

L'AUcgro 145 

II Penseroso 147 

Lycidas i4,S 

On His Having Arrival at the Age of Twenty-Three 151 

On Shakespeare 152 

To the Lord General Cruniwell 152 

On His Blindness 152 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 152 

To Cyriack Skinner 153 

On His Deceased Wife 153 

Paradise Lost: Book I 153 

Book n 165 

Book Xn 180 

Areopagitica 181 

Samuel Pepys 

The Diary 187 

Loyalist Stall Ballads 

To Make Charles a Great King 191 

The Humble Petition of the House of Commons 192 

The Character of a Roundhead 192 

Come, Drawer, Some Wine 192 

The Protecting Brewer , 193 

The Lawyers' Lamentation 193 

THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 

John Dr\T)EN 

Absalom and Achitophel 195 

Mac Flecknoe 204 

The Hind and the Panther 207 

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 208 

Alexander's Feast 209 

Lines Under the Portrait of Milton 211 

An Essay of Dramatic Poesy 211 

Preface to the Fables 213 

Daniel Defoe 

The True-Bom Englishman 214 

The Shortest Way with the Dissenters 216 

The Apparition of Mrs. \'eal 221 

Jonathan Swift 

The Tale of a Tub 226 

A Mtxlest Propo.sal 231 

The Journal to Stella 236 

Joseph Addison 

The Camjiaign 239 

The Spacious Firmament on High 240 

Joseph Addison and Richard Steele 
The Tatler 

Prospectus . 240 

Duelling 241 

Ned Softly 242 



xii COXTEXTS 

PAGE 

Frozen Words 244 

The Spectator 

Mr. Spectator = 246 

The Club 248 

Westminster Abbey 251 

Sir Roger at Church 253 

Sir Roger at the Assizes 254 

The Vision of JSIirza 256 

A Coquette's Heart 258 

Alexander Pope 

Windsor Forest 260 

An Essay on Criticism 262 

The Rape of the Lock ; . . 264 

An Essay on Man 276 

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 278 

The Universal Praj'er 279 

Oliver Goldsmith 

The Deserted Village 279 

The Retaliation 286 

The Citizen of the World 

Beau Tibbs at Home 287 

A Visit to a Silk-jSIerchant 289 

Samuel Johnson 

The Rambler, No. 121 290 

Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield 293 

Letter to James ]\Iacpherson 294 

Lives of the English Poets 

JMilton 294 

Dryden 297 

Addison 298 

Pope 299 

Gray 300 

James Bos^\t:ll 

The Life of Samuel Johnson: The Year 1763 301 

Edmund Burke 

Address to the Electors of Bristol 322 

The Impeachment of Warren Hastings 326 

Reflections on the Revolution in France 329 

The Precursors of Rom.a.nticism 

All-an Ramsay 

Peggy . ^ 332 

The Lass wath a Lump of Land . 332 

J.\MES Thomson 

The Seasons 333 

The Castle of Indolence 335 

Rule, Britannia 336 

EDW.A.RD Young 

Night Thoughts 336 

Robert Blair 

The Grave 337 

W1LLLA.M Collins 

A Song from Cymbeline 339 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

How Sleep the Brave 330 

Ode to Evening T^i^g 

The Passions 340 

Thomas Gray 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 342 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 343 

The Progress of Poesy , 345 

The Bard 347 

The Fatal Sisters 349 

Sketch of His Own Character 350 



Letters 



350 



James Macpherson 

Cath-Loda 352 

The Songs of Selma 353 

Carthon 353 

Robert Fergusson 

The Daft Days 353 

Thomas Chatterton 

Bristowe Tragedie 3^4 

Song from ^lla 3^g 

William Cowper 

Walking with God 360 

The Loss of the Royal George 360 

The Task 361 

On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture . . . . . . .... . .362 

Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin 364 

To Mary 364 

The Castaway ^ 365 

Robert Burns 

Lines to John Lapraik 366 

The Holy Fair 366 

To a Mouse 369 

To a Daisy 369 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 370 

Address to the Unco Guid t^'^t^ 

Tarn O'Shanter 374 

Scots Wha Hae .■ 377 

Songs 

Mary Morison 377 

Green Grow the Rashes 377 

Auld Lang Syne 378 

Of A' the Airts . 378 

Tarn Glen 37S 

My Heart's in the Highlands 379 

Go Fetch to Me a Pint of Wine 379 

John Anderson 379 

Willie Brewed a Peck o' Maut 379 

Sweet Afton 3S0 

Bonie Doon 3S0 

Ae Fond Kiss 380 

Highland Mary 381 

Duncan Gray 381 

See, the Smoking Bowl before Us ^82 



xiv CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Contented wi' Little 382 

A Man's a Man for A' That 382 

O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 383 

William Blake 
Songs of Innocence 

Introduction 383 

The Lamb . 383 

Cradle Song 384 

The Little Black Boy . 384 

Songs of Experience 

The Clod and the Pebble 384 

The Sick Rose • 385 

The Tiger 385 

The Sunflower 385 'j 

Auguries of Innocence 385 f 

Milton • 385. 

George Crabbe ii 

The Village 385-- 

The Borough 387 

William Lisle Bowles 

Time 387 

Hope 388 

To the River Tweed 388 

Bamborough Castle 388 

Written at Tynemouth after a Tempestuous Voyage 388 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 

William Wordsworth 

Preface to the Lyrical Ballads 389 

Lines Written in Early Spring 392 

Expostulation and Reply 392 

The Tables Turned 392 

Tintern Abbey 393 

Lucy Gray 395 

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways 396 

Three Years She Grew 396 

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 396 

The Prelude 396 

Michael 399 

My Heart Leaps Up 406 

Resolution and Independence 406 

Yew Trees 408 

At the Grave of Burns 409 

The Solitary Reaper 409 

To the Cuckoo 410 

She Was a Phantom of Delight 410 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 411 

Ode to Duty 411 

Character of the Happy Warrior 411 

Ode: Intimations of Immortality 413 

To a Sky-Lark 415 



CONTENTS XV 



PAGE 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 415 

London, 1802 416 

Westminster Bridge . 416 

On the Sea-Shore near Calais 416 

The World Is too Much with Us 416 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 417 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

France: An Ode 417 

Kubla Khan 419 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 419 

Frost at Midnight . 430 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni 431 

Dejection: An Ode 433 

Youth and Age 435 

Work without Hope 436 

Biographia Literaria 436 

Robert Southey 

The Inchcape Rock 440 

My Days among the Dead Are Passed 441 

Sir Walter Scott 

Lochinvar 441 

Soldier, Rest! 442 

Boat Song 442 

Coronach 443 

Harp of the North 443 

Jock of Hazeldean 444 

Brignall Banks 444 

County Guy 445 

Bonny Dundee 445 

George Gordon, Lord Byron 

When We Two Parted 446 

Know Ye the Land 446 

She Walks in Beauty 447 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 447 

Stanzas for Music 447 

So We'll Go no More A-Roving 448 

My Boat Is on the Shore 448 

Sonnet on Chillon 448 

The Prisoner of Chillon 448 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Canto III 452 

Canto IV 456 

Don Juan: Dedication 460 

Canto III 460 

Canto IV 463 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 471 

Ozymandias 472 

Ode to the West Wind 472 

The Indian Serenade 474 

The Cloud 474 

To a Skylark 475 

To (Music, When Soft Voices Die) 476 

Stanzas Written in Dejection 476 



xvi CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The World's Wanderers 477 

Time 477 

To Night 477 

To (One Word Is Too Often Profaned) . . . . . . . . .478 

Lyrics from Prometheus Unbound ' 478 

Adonais 479 

Final Chorus from Hellas . '. . . . 488 

When the Lamp Is Shattered 488 

With a Guitar, to Jane 489 

John Keats 

Sleep and Poetry 490 

Endymion 490 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 491 

Ode to a Nightingale 492 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 493 

Ode on Melancholy 494 

To Autumn 494 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 495 

Robin Hood 495 

The Eve of St. Agnes 496 

Hyperion: Book I 502 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 507 

When I Have Fears 507 

Bright Star 508 

Thomas Campbell 

Ye Mariners of England ..." 508 

Thomas Moore 

The Time I've Lost in Wooing 508 

Oft in the Stilly Night 509 

The Harp That Once through Tara's Halls 509 

Oh, Breathe not His Name 509 

Charles Wolfe 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 509 

Thomas Hood 

The Bridge of Sighs , 510 

The Song of the Shirt 511 

Charles Lamb 

Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago 512 

Dream Children 519 

The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers 521 

A Dissertation upon Roast Pig 525 

The Superannuated Man 529 

William Hazlitt 

The Fight 533 

On Going a Journey 542 

, On Familiar Style , 548 

Thomas de Quincy 

Confessions of an Opium-Eater 551 

On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth 559 

Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow 561 



CONTENTS 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 

Walter Savage Landor page 

RoseAylmer 566 

The Death of Artemidora 566 

Sappho to Hesperus 566 

One Year Ago 566 

To Robert Browning 566 

On the Hellenics 567 

Iphigeneia and Agamemnon 567 

To Youth 568 

To Age 568 

On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday 5 68 

To My Ninth Decade 568 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

The Lady of Shalott . .... .568 

CEnone . 570 

The Lotos-Eaters . 574 

A Dream of Fair Women 575 

You Ask Me Why 579 

Morte D'Arthur ■ 579 

Ulysses 583 

Locksley Hall ■ 584 

Break, Break, Break 589 

Songs from the Princess: Bugle Song 589 

Tears, Idle Tears 589 

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead . 590 

In Memoriam 590 

The Eagle 592 

Maud 592 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 594 

The Northern Farmer — Old Style 594 

The Higher Pantheism 596 

Flower in the Crannied Wall 596 

The Rdvenge 597 

Rizpah 599 

By an Evolutionist 601 

Merlin and the Gleam 601 

Crossing the Bar 603 

Robert Browning 

Song from Pippa Passes . 603 

Cavalier Tunes 603 

The Lost Leader 604 

How They Brought the Good News - 605 

Meeting at Night 606 

Parting at Morning 606 

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister 606 

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 607 

Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 607 

Saul 607 

Love among the Ruins 614 

Memorabilia 615 

My Last Duchess 615 



xviii CONTENTS 



PAGE 

In a Gondola 6i6 

A Grammarian's Funeral 619 

The Bishop Orders His Tomb 621 

Andrea Del Sarto 623 

Prospice 627 

AbtVogler 627 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 629 

Epilogue to Asolando 632 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 632 

The Cry of the Children 633 

A Musical Instrument . 636 

Edward Fitzgerald 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 636 

Thomas Carlyle 

Sartor Resartus 644 

Past and Present 648 

Cromwell's Letters and Speeches 655 

John Ruskin 

Modern Painters : Sunrise and Sunset in the Alps • • 657 

The Two Boyhoods 658 

The Stones of Venice: St. Mark's 664 

Time and Tide : Letter xv 669 

The Relation of Art to Morals 671 

Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay 

Oliver Goldsmith 675 

Arthur Hugh Clough 

Qua Cursum Ventus 683 

Where Lies the Land 684 

All Is Well 684 

Life Is Struggle 684 

Ite Domum Saturae 684 

Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth 685 

Matthew Arnold 

Shakespeare • . . 685 

The Forsaken Merman 686 

Philomela 687 

Requiescat 688 

The Scholar-Gipsy 688 

Sohrab and Rustum 692 

The Austerity of Poetry 706 

Rugby Chapel 706 

Dover Beach 709 

The Last Word 7^9 

Literature and Science 7^9 

Thomas Henry Huxley 

On the Advisableness of Improving Natural Knowledge 720 

John Henry, Cardinal Newman 

The Idea of a University 728 

Apologia pro Vita Sua 739 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 

The Blessed Damozel 740 

Sister Helen 74i 



CONTENTS xix 

PAGE 

The House of Life: The Sonnet 745 

Lovesight 745 

Silent Noon 745 

A Superscription 745 

William Morris 

The Earthly Paradise: An Apology 746 

Prologue 746 

Atalanta's Race 747 

The Haystack in the Floods 758 

Walter Horatio Pater 

Style 760 

Wordsworth 772 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

^s Triplex 780 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

The Garden of Proserpine 784 

Atalanta in Calydon: Choruses 785 

A Match 787 

To Walt Whitman in America 787 

After Sunset 789 

Qn the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and George Eliot 789 

Christopher Marlowe 789 

Ben Jonson . 790 

George Meredith 

Love in the Valley 790 

Juggling Jerry 794 

Lucifer in Starlight 795 



A BOOK OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 



A BOOK OF ENGLISH LIl^ERATURE 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1340-1400) 

THE PROLOGUE 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote 
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the 

rote, 
And bathed every veyne in swich Hcour, 
Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 5 
Inspired hath in every holt^ and heeth 
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, 
And smale fowles maken melodye, 
That slepen al the night with open ye, 10 
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages^): 
Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages 
(And palmers for to seken straunge 

strondes) 
To ferne^ halwes,^ couthe^ in sondry lon- 

des; 
And specially, from every shires ende 15 
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
The holy blisful martir for to seke, 
That hem hath holpen, whan that they 

were seke. 
Bifel that, in that seson on a day, 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay 20 
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 
At night was come in-to that hostelrye 
Wei nyne and twenty in a companye, 
Of sondry folk, by aventure^ y-falle'^ 25 
In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they 

alle, 
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde; 
The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 
And wel we weren esed atte beste.^ 
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everichon, 31 
That I was of hir felawshipe anon, 
And made forward^ erly for to ryse. 
To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse. 
But natheles, whyl I have tyme and 

space, 35 



' wood. 2 hearts. 
5 chance. ' fallen. 
' agreement. 



' distant. * shrines. ' known. 
s " entertained in the best manner." 



Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 

Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun, 

To telle yow al the condicioun 

Of ech of hem, so as it semed me. 

And whiche they weren, and of what 

degree; 40 

And eek in what array that they were 

inne: 
And at a knight than wol I first biginne. 
A Knight ther was, and that a worthy 

man. 
That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
To ryden out, he loved chivalrye, 45 

Trouthe and honour, fredom and cur- 

teisye. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,^*^ 
And therto hadde he riden (no man ferre^^) 
As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse. 
And ever honoured for his worthinesse. 50 
At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne; 
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bi- 

gonne^^ 
Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. 
In Lettow hadde he reysed^^ and in Ruce, 
No Cristen man so ofte of his degree. 55 
In Gernade at the sege eek hadde he be 
Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye. 
At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, 
Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete 

See 
At many a noble aryve^^ hadde he be. 60 
At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene. 
And foughten for our feith at Tramissene 
In listes thryes, and ay slayn his foo. 
This ilke worthy knight hadde been also 
Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, 65 

Ageyn another hethen in Turkye : 
And evermore he hadde a sovereyn 

prys.^^ 
And though that he were worthy, he was 

wys. 
And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 
He never yet no vileinye ne sayde 70 

In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight. ^^ 
He was a verray parfit gentil knight. 

1" war. 11 farther. 

12 "he had been placed at the head of the table." _ 
'' gone on an expedition. " disembarkation. 

15 reputation. '^ no sort of person. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



But for to tellen yow of his array, 
His hors^ were goode, but he was nat gay. 
Of fustian he wered a gipoun- 75 

Al bismotered^ with his habergeoun;^ 
For he was late y-come from his viage,^ 
And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. 
With him ther was his sone, a yong 

Squyer, 
A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, 80 

With lokkes crulle,^ as they were leyd in 

presse. 
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of evene lengthe/ 
And wonderly deliver,^ and greet of 

strengthe. 
And he had been somtyme in chivachye,^ 
In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye, 86 
And born him wel, as of so litel space, ■"^'^ 
In hope to stonden in his lady^^ grace. 
Embrouded^- was he, as it were a mede^^ 
Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede. 90 
Singinge he was, or floytinge,^'' al the day; 
He was as fresh as is the month of May. 
Short was his goune, with sieves longe and 

wyde. 
Wel coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. 
He coude songes make and wel endyte, 95 
luste^^ and eek daunce, and wel purtreye^^ 

and wryte. 
So hote^" he lovede, that by nightertale^* 
He sleep namore than dooth a nightin- 
gale. 
Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable. 
And carf biforn his fader at the table. 100 
A Yeman hadde he, and servaunts namo 
At that tyme, for him liste^^ ryde so; 
And he was clad in cote and hood of grene ; 
A sheef of pecock-arwes brighte and kene 
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily, 105 

(Wel coude he dresse his takel-*' yemanly: 
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres 

lowe) , 
And in his hand he bar a mighty bowe. 
A not-heed^^ hadde he, with a broun 

visage. 
Of wode-craft wel coude he al the usage.no 
Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer,-- 
And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler. 
And on that other syde a gay daggere, 

1 horses (plural) . - doublet. 3 spotted. 

•• coat of mail. ^ voyage. ^ curly. 

' ordmar>' height. § active. ^ military expedition. 
1° " considering the short time he had served." 
n lady's. i- adorned. " meadow. i-i fluting. 

'» joust. IS draw. i" hotly, is jn the night-time. 

" it pleased him. 20 take care of his weapons. 

21 cropped head. -2 guard. 



Harneised^^ wel, and sharp as point of 

spere ; 
A Cristofre-^ on his brest of silver shene.115 
An horn he bar, the bawdrik^^ was of grene ; 
A forster-^ was he, soothly, as I gesse. 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hir smyling was ful simple and 

coy; 119 

Hir gretteste ooth was but by seynt Loy, 
And she was cleped^'' madame Eglentyne. 
Ful wel she song the service divyne, 
Entuned in hir nose ful semely; 
And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly,^ 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 125 
For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. 
At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle; 
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 
Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe. 
Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel 

kepe, 130 

That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest. 
In curteisye was set ful moche hir lest.^^ 
Hir over lippe wyped she so clene, 
That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene 
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir 

draughte. 135 

Ful semely after hir mete she raughte,^" 
x\nd sikerly^^ she was of greet disport,^- 
And full plesaunt, and amiable of port,^^ 
And peyned hir^^ to countrefete chere^^ 
Of court, and been estatlich^^ of manere,i4o 
And to ben holden digne^'^ of reverence. 
But, for to speken of hir conscience,^** 
She was so charitable and so pitous. 
She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous 
Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or 

bledde. 145 

Of smale houndes had she, that .she f edde 
With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel 

breed. ^^ 
But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed. 
Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: 
And al was conscience and tendre herte.iso 
Ful semely hir wimpel pinched'*" was; 
Hir nose tretys;'*^ hir eyen greye as glas; 
Hir mouth ful smal, and ther- to softe and 

reed; 
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; 
It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; 155 

23 equipped. 

-^ " figure of St. Christopher used as a brooch." 

-' belt. 26 forester. 27 named, ^s elegantly. 

2^ pleasure, ^o reached, 'i truly. ^2 fond of pleasure. 

33 behavior. 34 tried hard. 35 cJeportment. 

35 dignified. 3? worthy. ' 38 tenderness of heart. 

33 fine bread. ^pleated. ^i well proportioned. 



CHA UCER 



For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 
Ful fetis^ was hir cloke, as I was war. 
Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar 
A peire^ of bedes, gauded al with grene; 
And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful 

shene, i6o 

On which ther was first write a crowned A, 
And after, A^nor vincit omnia. 

Another Nonne with hir hadde she, 
That was hir chapeleyne, and Preestes 

thre. 
A Monk ther was, a fair for the mais- 

trye,^ 165 

An out-rydere, that lovede venerye;* 
A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in 

stable: 
And, whan he rood, men mighte his brydel 

here 
Ginglen in a whistling wind as clere, 1 70 
And eek as loude as dooth the chapel-belle, 
Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 
The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, 
By-cause that it was old and som-del 

streit,^ 1 74 

This ilke^ monk leet olde thinges pace,''' 
And held after the newe world the space. 
He yaf^ nat of that text a pulled hen, 
That seith, that hunters been nat holy 

men; 
Ne that a monk, whan he is cloisterlees, 
Is lykned til a fish that is waterlees ; 1 80 
This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloistre. 
But thilke text held he nat worth an oistre. 
And I seyde, his opinioun was good. 
What sholde he studie, and make him- 

selven wood,^ 
Upon a book in cloistre alwey to poure, 185 
Or swinken^*^ with his handes, and laboure, 
As Austin bit? How shal the world be 

served? 
Lat Austin have his swink to him reserved. 
Therfore he was a pricasour^^ aright; 
Grehoundes he hadde, as swifte as fowel 

in flight; 190 

Of priking^- and of hunting for the hare 
Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
I seigh his sieves purfiled^^ at the hond 
With grys,^'* and that the fyneste of a 

lond; 
And, for to festne his hood under his chin, 

' handsome. ^ string. ^ a superior sort of fellow. 

* hunting. ^ somewhat strict. ^ same. ' go. 

'cared. ' mad. "> work. >' hard rider. 

'2 riding. '3 trimmed. '* gray fur. 



He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pin: 
A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 
His heed was balled, that shoon as any 
glas, 198 

And eek his face, as he had been anoint. 
He was a lord ful fat and in good point ;^^ 
His eyen stepe,^^ and roUinge in his heed. 
That stemed^'^ as a forneys of a leed;^^ 
His botes souple, his hors in greet estat. 
Now certeinly he was a fair prelat; 
He was nat pale as a for-pyned^^ goost. 205 
A fat swan loved he best of any roost. 
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 
A Frere there was, a wantown and a 

merye, 
A limitour,^'' a ful solempne^^ man. 
In alle the ordres foure is noon that can^^ 
So moche of daliaunce and fair langage.211 
He hadde maad ful many a mariage 
Of yonge w^ommen, at his owne cost. 
•Un-to his ordre he was a noble post. 
Ful wel biloved and famulier v*^as he 215 
With frankeleyns^^ over-al in his contree. 
And eek with worthy wommen of the 

toun: 
For he had power of confessioun, 
As seyde him-self , more than a curat, 
For of his ordre he was licentiat.^^ 220 

Ful swetely herde he confessioun. 
And plesaunt was his absolucioun; 
He was an esy man to yeve^*" penaunce 
Ther-as he wiste to han a good pitaunce; 
For unto a povre order for to yive 225 

Is signe that a man is wel y-shrive. 
For if he yaf , he dorste make avaunt,^^ 
He wiste that a man was repentaunt. 
For many a man so hard is of his herte. 
He may nat wepe al-thogh him sore 

smerte. 230 

Therfore, in stede of weping and preyeres. 
Men moot yeve silver to the povre freres. 
His tipet was ay farsed^^ full of knyves 
And pinnes, for to yeven faire wyves. 
And certeinly he hadde a mery note ; 235 
Wel coude he synge and pleyen on a rot'e.^* 
Of yeddinges-^ he bar utterly the prys. 
His nekke whyt was as the flour-de-lys; 
Ther-to he strong was as a champioun. 
He knew the tavernes well in every 

toun, 240 



i'" in good condition. 
'* fire under a cauldron. 
^ licensed beggar. 
-3 country gentlemen. 
25 give. 
28 a sort of fiddle. 



'6 glittering. '^ glowed. 

15 wasted away. 
-I important. -" knows. 
-■' licensed to hear confessions. 
=6 boast. 2' stuffed. 

-3 songs. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



And everich hostiler and tappestere^ 
Bet^ than a lazar^ or a beggestere;^ 
For unto swich a worthy man as he 
Acorded nat, as by his facultee,^ 
To have with seke lazars aqueyntaunce.245 
It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce^ 
For to delen with no swich poraille/ 
But al with riche and sellers of vitaille. 
And over-al, ther as profit sholde aryse, 
Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse. 250 
Ther nas^ no man nowher so vertuous. 
He was the beste beggere in his hous; 
For thogh a widwe hadde noght a sho, 
So plesaunt was his In principio^ 
Yet wolde he have a ferthing, er he wente. 
His purchas^° was wel bettre than his 

rente. ^^ 256 

And rage he coude as it were right a 

whelpe. 
In love-dayes ther coude he mochel helpe. 
For ther he was nat lyk a cloisterer, 
With a thredbar cope, as is a povre scoler. 
But he was lyk a maister or a pope. 261 
Of double worsted was his semi-cope. 
That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 
Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse. 
To make his English swete up-on his 

tonge; 265 

And in his harping, whan that he had 

songe. 
His eyen twinkled in his heed aright. 
As doon the sterres in the frosty night. 
This worthy limitour was cleped Huberd. 
A Marchant was ther with a forked 

berd, 270 

In mottelee, and hye on horse he sat, 
Up-on his heed a Flaundrish bever hat; 
His botes clasped faire and fetisly. 
His resons he spak ful solempnely, 
Souninge^^ alway thencrees of his winning. 
He wolde the see were kept^^ for any 

thing 276 

Bitwixe Middlelburgh and Orewelle. 
Wel coude he in eschaunge sheeldes^* selle. 
This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette;^^ 
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette. 
So estatly was he of his governaunce,^^ 281 
With his bargaynes, and with his chev- 



isaunce 



17 



' barmaid. ^ better. ^ leper. ^ beggar woman. 

5 considering his ability. ^ profit. ' poor people. 

8 was not. 

' the beginning of the Latin Gospel of St. John. 
■° proceeds of his begging. i' regular income. 

'2 tending towards. " guarded. 

^* shields, French coins. '^ employed, 

w management. '' dealings. 



For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle, 
But sooth to seyn, I noot^^ how men him 

calle. 
A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 285 
That un-to logik hadde longe y-go. 
As lene was his hors as is a rake. 
And he nas nat right fat, I undertake; 
But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly. 
Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy;^^29o 
For he had geten him yet no benefyce, 
Ne was so worldly for to have offyce. 
For him was lever have at his beddes heed 
Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed. 
Of Aristotle and his philosophye, 295 

Than robes riche, or fithele,^" or gay sau- 

trye.^^ 
But al be that he was a philosophre, 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; 
But al that he mighte of his freendes 

hente,^^ 
On bokes and on lerninge he it spente, 300 
And bisily gan for the soules preye 
Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye. 
Of studie took he most cure and most 

hede. 
Noght o word spak he more than was nede, 
And that was seyd in forme and rever- 

ence,^^ _ 305 

And short and quik, and ful of hy sen- 
tence.^* 
Souninge^^ in moral vertu was his speche. 
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly 

teche. 
A Sergeant of the La we, war^^ and wys, 
That often hadde been at the parvys,^^ 310 
Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
Discreet he was, and of greet reverence: 
He semed swich, his wordes weren so wyse. 
lustyce he was ful often in assyse, 
By patente, and by pleyn commissioun;3i5 
For-^ his science, and for his heigh renoun, 
Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. 
So greet a purchasour^^ was nowher noon. 
Al was fee simple to him in effect. 
His purchasing mighte nat been infect. 320 
Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas. 
And yet he semed bisier than he was. 
In termes hadde he caas^° and domes^^ alle, 
That from the tyme of king William were 

falle. 



18 know not. '' outer coat. 20 fiddle. 21 psaltery. 

22 get. 23 " with propriety and modesty." 

24 meaning. 25 conducing to. 26 cautious. 

2' church-porch. 28 because of. 29 conveyancer. 

3" cases. '1 judgments. 



CHA UCER 



Therto he coude endyte, and make a thing, 
Ther coude no wight pinche^ at his 

wry ting; 326 

And every statut coude he pleyn by rote. 
He rood but hoomly in a medlee^ cote 
Girt with a ceint^ of silk, with barres 

smale; 
Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 330 

A Frankeleyn was in his companye; 
Whyt was his berd, as is the dayesye. 
Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.^ 
Wei loved he by the morwe^ a sop® in 

wyn.® 
To liven in dely t was ever his wone,'' 33 5 
For he was Epicurus owne sone. 
That heeld opinioun that pleyn delyt^ 
Was verraily felicitee parfyt. 
An housholdere, and that a greet, was he; 
Seynt lulian he was in his contree. 340 

His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon;^ 
A bettre envyned^" man was no-wher noon. 
With-oute bake mete was never his hous, 
Of fish and flesh, and that so plentevous. 
It snewed in his hous of mete and drinke. 
Of alle deyntees that men coude thinke.346 
After the sondry sesons of the yeer. 
So chaunged he his mete and his soper. 
Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in 

mewe,^^ 
And many a breem^^ and many a luce^^ in 

stewe.^^ 350 

Wo was his cook, but-if his sauce were 
Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his gere. 
His table dormant^^ in his halle alway 
Stood redy covered al the longe day. 
At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire. 355 
Ful ofte tyme he was knight of the shire. 
An anlas^® and a gipser^'^ al of silk 
Heng at his girdel, whyt as morne milk. 
A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour;^^ 
Was no-wher such a worthy vavasour.^^ 360 
An Haberdassher and a Carpenter, 
A Webbe,^*' a Dyere, and a Tapicer,^^ 
Were with us eek, clothed in o^^ liveree, 
Of a solempne and greet fraternitee. 
Ful fresh and newe hir gere apyked^^ was; 
Hir knyves were y-chaped^* noght with 
bras, 366 

1 find fault with. ^ of mixed colors. ' girdle. 

■• ruddy. '' in the morning. 

6 wine with bread in it. ' custom. 

8 joy. ' of one quality. "> stored with wine. 

" coop. '- a sort of fish. " pike. 

" fish-pond. 15 permanent side table. '^ short dagger. 
" purse. 18 auditor. " landed gentleman. 

2" weaver. 21 upholsterer. ^^ Q^e. 

23 trimmed. ^^ capped. 



But al with silver, wroght ful clene and 

weel, 
Hir girdles and hir pouches every-deel. 
Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys. 
To sitten in a yeldhalle^^ on a deys. 370 
Everich, for the wisdom that he can, 
Was shaply for to been an alderman. 
For cateP® hadde they y-nogh and rente, 
And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente; 
And elles certein were they to blame. 375 
It is ful fair to been y-clept "ma dame", 
And goon to vigilyes al bifore. 
And have a mantel royalliche y-bore. 
A Cook they hadde with hem for the 

nones,^' 
To boille the chiknes with the mary-bones. 
And poudre-marchant tart,^^ and galin- 

gale.^^ 381 

Wel coude he knowe a draughte of London 

ale. 
He coude roste,' and sethe,^° and broille, 

and frye, 
Maken mortreux,^^ and wel bake a pye. 
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte 

me, 385 

That on his shine a mormaP^ hadde he; 
For blankmanger,^^ that made he with the 

beste. 
A Shipman was ther, woning fer by 

weste: 
For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood up-on a rouncy,^^ as he couthe,^^ 
In a gowne of falding^® to the knee. 391 

A daggere hanging on a laas^'' hadde he 
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
The hote somer had maad his hewe al 

broun ; 
And, certeinly, he was a good felawe. 395 
Ful many a draughte of wyn had he 

y-drawe 
From Burdeux-ward, whyl that the chap- 

man^^ sleep. 
Of nyce conscience took he no keep.^^ 
If that he faught, and hadde the hyer 

hond. 
By water^° he sente hem hoom''° to every 

lond. 400 

But of his craft^^ to rekene wel his tydes, 
His stremes^- and his daungers him bisydes, 



25 guild-hall. ^ property. 

28 a sharp sort of flavoring. 

3" boil. ^' pottages. 

33 a sort of chicken compote. 

35 as well as he could. 

3' string. 38 super-cargo 

"he made the losers "walk the plank." 

■11 skill. ^- currents 



2' for the occasion. 

29 sweet cyperus. 

32 sore. 

s-i hackney. 

35 coarse cloth. 

39 cared nothing at all. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



His herberwe^ and his mone,^ his lode- 
menage,^ 
Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to 

Cartage. 
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake ; 405 
With many a tempest hadde his herd been 

shake. 
He knew wel alle the havenes, as- they 

were. 
From Gootlond to the cape of Finistere, 
And every cryke in Britayne and in 
Spayne; 409 

His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 
With us ther was a Doctour op Phisyk, 
In al this world ne was ther noon him lyk 
To speke of phisik and of surgerye ; 
For he was grounded in astronomye. 
He kepte^ his pacient a ful greet del 415 
In houres,^ by his magik naturel. 
Wel coude he fortunen^ the ascendent 
Of his images for his pacient. 
He knew the cause of everich maladye, 
Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste, or 
drye, 420 

And where engendred, and of what hu- 
mour; 
He was a verrey parfit practisour. 
The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the 

rote,^ 
Anon he yaf the seke man his bote.^ 
Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries, 425 
To sende him drogges, and his letuaries,^ 
For ech of hem made other for to winne; 
Hir frendschipe nas nat newe to biginne. 
Wel knew he the olde Esculapius, 
AndDeiscorides, and eek Rufus; 430 

Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien; 
Serapion, Razis, and Avicen; 
Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn; 
Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 
Of his diete mesurable^ was he, 435 

For it was of no superfluitee. 
But of greet norissing and digestible. 
His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
In sangwin^^ and in pers^^ he clad was al, 
Lyned with taffata and with sendal,^' 440 
And yet he was but esy of dispence;'^^ 
He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 
For gold in phisik is a cordial, 
Therfore he lovede gold in special. 

' harbor. ^ position of the moon. ^ pilotage. 

•■ watched for his patient's favorable star. 

^ On the five following lines consult the notes. 

^ root, origin. ' remedy. ^ remedies. ' temperate. 

'" red cloth. " blue cloth. '^ thin silk. " expenditure. 



A good Wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, 
But she was som-del deef, and that was 

scathe. '■* 446 

Of clooth-making she hadde swiche an 

haunt,^^ 
She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon 
That to the offring bifore hir sholde goon; 
And if ther dide, certeyn, so wrooth was 

she, 451 

That she was out of alle charitee. 
Hir coverchiefs^^ ful fyne were of ground ;^^ 
I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound 
That on a Sonday were upon hir heed. 455 
Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, 
Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moiste^^ 

and newe. 
Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of 

he we. 
She was a worthy womman al hir lyve; 
Housbondes at chirche-dore she hadde 

fyve, 460 

Withouten other companye in youthe ; 
But therof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe.^^ 
And thryes hadde she been at lerusalem; 
She hadde passed many a straunge streem; 
At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, 
In Galice at seint lame, and at Coloigne. 
She coude muche of wandring by the 

weye. 467 

Gat-tothed-*^ was she, soothly for to seye. 
Up-on an amblere esily she sat, 
Y-wimpled^^ wel, and on hir heed an hat 470 
As brood as is a bokeler or a targe; 
A foot-manteP" aboute hir hipes large. 
And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe. 
In felaweschip wel coude she laughe and 

carpe.^^ 474 

Of remedies of love she knew per-chaunce. 
For she coude of that art the olde daunce. 

A good man was ther of religioun, 
And was a povre Persoun^'^ of a toun; 
But riche he was of holy thoght and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 480 

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche; 
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent. 
And in adversitee ful pacient ; 484 

And swich he was y-preved"^ ofte sythes.^^ 
Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes, 



" a pity. '* skill. '^ head-dresses. '' texture. 

" supple. '' at present. -^ with teeth far apart. 

-' her head well covered with a wimple. 

22 cloth to protect the skirt. -^ talk. 

-■' parish priest. -^ proved. 2* many a time. 



CHAUCER 



But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, 
Un-to his povre parisshens aboute 
Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. 
He coude in Htel thing han suffisaunce. 490 
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer 

a-sonder, 
But he ne lafte^ nat for reyn ne thonder, 
In siknes nor in meschief to visyte 
The ferreste in his parisshe, muche^ and 

lyte,^ 
Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf . 495 
This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf, 
That first he wroghte, and afterward he 

taughte; 
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte; 
And this figure he added eek ther-to. 
That if gold ruste, what shal iren do? 500 
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste. 
No wonder is a lewed^ man to ruste; 
And shame it is, if a preest take keep,^ 
A [spotted] shepherde and a clene sheep. 
Wei oghte a preest ensample for to yive,sos 
By his clennesse, how that his sheep shold 

live. 
He sette nat his benefice to hyre, 
And leet his sheep encombred in the 

myre, 
And ran to London, un-to seynt Poules, 
To seken him a chaunterie for soules, 510 
Or with a bretherhed to been withholde;^ 
But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his 

folde, 
So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie; 
He was a shepherde and no mercenarie. 
And though he holy were, and vertuous,5i5 
He was to sinful man nat despitous,^ 
Ne of his speche daungerous^ ne digne,^ 
But in his teching discreet and benigne. 
To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse 
By good ensample, this was his bisinesse: 
But it were any persone obstinat, 521 

What so he were, of heigh or lowe estat. 
Him wolde he snibben^" sharply for the 

nones. 
A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon 

is. 
He wayted after no pompe and reverence, 
Ne maked him a spyced^^ conscience, 526 
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 
He taughte, and first he folwed it him- 

selve. 



> ceased not. 


2 high. 


3 low. 


* ignorant. 


^ pay attention to it. 


6 confined 


' merciless. 


8 disdainful. 


' scornful 


1° reprove. 


" over-scrupulous. 





With him ther was a Plowman, was his 

brother. 
That hadde y-lad^^ of dong ful many a 

fother;^^ 530 

A trewe swinkere^* and a good was he, 
Livinge in pees and parfit charitee. 
God loved he best with al his hole herte 
At alle tymes, thogh him gamed^^ or 

smerte,^^ 
And thanne his neighebour right as him- 
■ selve. 535 

He wolde thresshe, and ther-to dyke^^ and 

delve. 
For Cristes sake, for every povre wight, 
Withouten hyre, if it lay in his might. 
His tythes payed he ful faire and wel, 
Bothe of his propre swink^^ and his catel.-^^ 
In a tabard"° he rood upon a mere. 541 

Ther was also a Reve^^ and a Millere, 
A Somnour'^ and a Pardoner also, 
A Maunciple,^^ and my-self; ther were 

namo. 
The Miller was a stout carl, for the 

nones, 545 

Ful big he was of braun, and eek of bones; 
That proved wel, for over-al ther he cam. 
At wrastling he wolde have alwey the 

24 

ram.^^ 
He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke 

knarre,"^ 
Ther nas no dore that he nolde-^ heve of 

harre,^^ _ _ 5 so 

Or breke it, at a renning, with his heed. 
His berd as any sowe or fox was reed, 
And ther-to brood, as though it were a 

spade. 
Up-on the cop^'^ right of his nose he hade 
A werte, and ther-on stood a tuft of heres. 
Reed as the bristles of a sowes eres ; 556 
His nose-thirles-^ blake were and wyde. 
A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde; 
His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys. 
He was a langlere-^ and a goliardeys,'^" 560 
And that was most of sinne and harlotryes. 
Wel coude he stelen corn, and toUen 

thryes ; 
And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, 

pardee. 
A whyt cote and a blew hood wered he. 

12 carried in a cart. " load. '^ laborer. 

15 it pleased. '^ pained. " dig. 

'8 labor. " property. ^ loose coat. 

-' bailiff. -'- summoner for an ecclesiastical court. 

-' steward of a college. -■• win the prize, a ram. 

-'" a sturdy fellow. ^6 could not lift off its hinges. 

2' top. 28 nostrils. =« talker. *> buffoon. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



A baggepype wel coude he blowe and 

sowne, 565 

And therwithal he broghte us out of 

towne, 
A gentil Maunciple was ther of a tem- 
ple, 
Of which achatours^ mighte take exemple 
For to be wyse in bying of vitaille. 
For whether that he payde, or took by 

taille,^ 570 

Algate^ he wayted'* so in his achat,^ 
That he was ay biforn and in good stat. 
Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace, 
That swich a lewed^ mannes wit shal pace 
The wisdom of an heep of lerned men? 575 
Of maistres hadde he mo than thryes ten, 
That were of lawe expert and curious; 
Of which ther were a doseyn in that hous, 
Worthy to been stiwardes of rente and 

lond 
Of any lord that is in Engelond, 580 

To make him Hve by his propre good, 
In honour dettelees,''' but he were wood,^ 
Or Hve as scarsly as him Kst desire; 
And able for to helpen al a shire 
In any cas that mighte falle or happe; 585 
And yit this maunciple sette^ hir aller 

cappe.^ 
The Reve was a sclendre colerik man. 
His berd was shave as ny as ever he 

can. 
His heer was by his eres round y-shorn. 
His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn. 5 go 
Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 
Y-lyk a staf , ther was no calf y-sene. 
Wel coude he kepe a gerner^" and a binne ; 
Ther was noon auditour coude on him 

winne. 
Wel wiste he, by the droghte, and by the 

reyn, _ _ 595 

The yelding of his seed, and of his greyn. 
His lordes sheep, his neet,^^ his dayerye, 
His swyn, his hors, his stoor,^' and his 

pultrye, 
Was hoolly in this reves governing. 
And by his covenaunt yaf the rekening,6oo 
Sin that his lord was twenty yeer of age; 
Ther coude no man bringe him in arrerage. 
Ther nas baillif, ne herde, ne other hyne,^^ 
That he ne knew his sleighte^^ and his 



covyne; 



604 



• caterers. ^ on credit. ' always. •• took precautions. 

5 buying. ^ ignorant. " free from debt. 

8 mad. ' over-reached them all. i" granary. 

11 cattle. '^ stock. '^ servant. ^^ trickery, i^ deceit. 



They were adrad of him, as of the deeth. 
His woning^^ was ful fair up-on an heeth, 
With grene trees shadwed was his place. 
He coude bettre than his lord purchace. 
Ful riche he was astored prively. 
His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 610 
To yeve and lene^^ him of his owne good, 
And have a thank, and yet a cote and 

hood. 
In youthe he lerned hadde a good mister ;^^ 
He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 
This reve sat up-on a ful good stot,^^ 615 
That was al pomely^° grey, and highte Scot. 
A long surcote of pers^^ up-on he hade, 
And by his syde he bar a rusty blade. 
Of Northfolk was this reve, of which I telle, 
Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle.620 
Tukked"^ he was, as is a frere, aboute. 
And evere he rood the hindreste of our 

route. 
A SoMNOUR was ther with us in that 

place. 
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face, 

Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek 

lekes, 
And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as 

blood. 635 

Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he 

were wood. 
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the 

wyn. 
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
A fewe termes hadde he, two or three. 
That he had lerned out of som decree ; 640 
No wonder is, he herde it al the day ; 
And eek ye knowen wel, how that a lay 
Can clepen "Watte,"^^ as well as can the 

pope. 
But who-so coude in other thing him 

grope,"^ 
Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye ; 
Ay ' ' Questio quid iuris ' ' wolde he crye. 646 
He was a gentil harlot-^ and a kynde ; 
A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde. 
He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn 
A good felawe to have his [wikked sin] 650 
A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fulle: 
And prively a finch eek coude he puUe. 
And if he fond owher^^ a good felawe. 
He wolde techen him to have non awe, 

■s house. " lend. '^ trade. " horse. 

2" dappled. -' blue cloth. -- tucked. 

2» jay can cry "Wat." 24 "test him in any other point." 
-' rogue. "^ anywhere. 



CHA UCER 



In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs, 655 
But-if'' a mannes soule were in his purs; 
For in his purs he sholde y-punisshed be. 
"Purs is the erchedeknes helle," seyde he. 
But wel I woot he lyed right in dede; 
Of cursing oghte ech gilty man him drede — 
For curs wol slee, right as assoilling^ 
saveth — 661 

And also war him^ of a significamt. 
In daunger^ hadde he at his owne gyse^ 
The yonge girles® of the diocyse, 
And knew hir counseil, and was al hir 



reed. 



66s 



A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed, 
As greet as it were for an ale-stake; 
A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake. 

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner 
Of Rouncival, his freend and his compeer, 
That streight was comen fro the court of 

Rome. 671 

Ful loude he song, "Com hider, love, to 

me." 
This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun. 
Was never trompe of half so greet a soun. 
This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex. 
But smothe it heng, as doth a strike^ of 

flex; 676 

By ounces® henge his lokkes that he hadde, 
And ther-with he his shuldres over- 

spradde ; 
But thinne it lay, by colpons^" oon and 

oon; 

But hood, for lolitee, ne wered he noon, 680 

For it was trussed up in his walet. 

Him thoughte,^^ he rood al of the newe 
Iet;i2 

Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare. 
Swiche glaringe eyen hadde he as an hare. 
A vernicle hadde he sowed on his cappe. 685 
His walet lay biforn him in his lappe, 
Bret-fuP^ of pardoun come from Rome al 

hoot. 
A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot. 
No berd hadde he, ne never sholde have. 
As smothe it was as it were late 

y-shave; 690 

But of his craft, fro Berwik into Ware, 

Ne was ther swich another pardoner. 

For in his male^^ he hadde a pilwe-beer,'^'^ 



' unless. 2 absolution. 3 Jet him beware of. 

* in his jurisdiction. ' way. ^ people. 

' adviser. ^ hank of flax. ' small portions. 

>" shreds. " it seemed to him. '^ fashion. 

" brim-full. " wallet. '^ piUow-case. 



Which that, he seyde, was our lady veyl:^^ 
He seyde, he hadde a gobet^'' of the seyl 696 
That seynt Peter hadde, whan that he 

wente 
Up-on the see, til lesu Crist him hente.^^ 
He hadde a croys of latoun,^® ful of stones, 
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 
But with thise relikes, whan that he fond 
A povre person dwelling up-on lond,^*^ 
Up-on a day he gat him more moneye 
Than that the person got in monthes 

tweye. 
And thus with feyned flaterye and lapes,^^ 
He made the person and the peple his apes. 
But trewely to tellen, atte laste, 707 

He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste. 
Wel coude he rede a lessoun or a storie, 
But alderbest^^ he song an offertorie; 710 
For wel he wiste, whan that song was 

songe, 
He moste preche, and wel afifyle^^ his tonge, 
To winne silver, as he ful wel coude; 
Therefore he song so meriely and loude. 
Now have I told you shortly, in a clause, 
Thestat,^^ tharray, the nombre, and eek 

the cause 716 

Why that assembled was this companye 
In South werk, at this gentil hostelrye, 
That highte the Tabard, faste by the 

Belle. 
But now is tyme to yow for to telle 720 

How that we baren us that ilke night. 
Whan we were in that hostelrye alight. 
And after wol I telle of our viage. 
And al the remenaunt of our pilgrimage. 
But first I pray yow, of your curteisye, 725 
That ye narette^^ it nat my vileinye,^^ 
Thogh that I pleynly speke in this matere, 
To telle yow hir wordes and hir chere,^^ 
Ne thogh I speke hir wordes properly.^^ 
For this ye knowen al-so wel as I, 730 

Who-so shal telle a tale after a man. 
He moot reherce, as ny as ever he can, 
Everich a^^ word, if it be in his charge, 
Al speke he"® never so rudeliche and large ;^'^ 
Or elles he moot telle his tale untrewe, 735 
Or feyne thing, or fynde wordes newe. 
He may nat spare, al-thogh he were his 

brother ; 
He moot as wel seye o word as another. 

M the Virgin Mary's veil. '' piece. i^ took. 

1' brass. 2° in the country. 

21 tricks. 22 best of all. 23 sharpen. 24 the estate. 
25 "ascribe it not to my ill breeding." 26 behavior. 

2' literally. 28 every. 

2* although he speak. ^ freely. 



lO 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Crist spak him-self ful brode in holy writ, 
And wel ye woot, no vileinye is it. 740 

Eek Plato seith, who-so that can him rede, 
The wordes mote be cosin to the dede. 
Also I prey yow to foryeve it me, 
Al have I nat set folk in hir degree^ 
Here in this tale^ as that they sholde 

stonde; 745 

My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 
Greet chere made our hoste us everichon, 
And to the soper sette he us anon ; 
And served us with vitaille at the beste. 
Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us 

leste.^ 750 

A semely man our hoste was with-alle 
For to han been a marshal in an halle; 
A large man he was with eyen stepe,^ 
A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe: 
Bold of his speche, and wys, and wel 

y-taught, 755- 

And of manhod him lakkede right naught. 
Eek therto he was right a mery man. 
And after soper pleyen"* he bigan, 
And spak of mirthe amonges othere 

thinges, 759 

Whan that we hadde maad our rekeninges; 
And seyde thus: "Now, lordinges, trewely 
Ye been to me right welcome hertely : 
For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, 
I ne saugh^ this yeer so mery a companye 
At ones^ in this herberwe" as is now. 765 
Fayn wolde I doon yow mirthe, wiste I 

how. 
And of a mirthe, I am right now bithoght. 
To doon yow ese,^ and it shal coste noght. 
Ye goon to Caunterbury; God yow 

spede. 
The bHsful martir quyte yow your mede.^ 
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye,77i 
Ye shapen yow to talen^^ and to pleye; 
For trewely, confort ne mirthe is noon 
To ryde by the weye doumb as a stoon ; 
And therfore wol I maken yow disport, 775 
As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort. 
And if yow lyketh alle, by oon assent. 
Now for to stonden at my lugement, 
And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 
To-morwe, whan ye ryden by the weye, 780 
Now, by my fader soule, that is deed. 
But ye be merye, I wol yeve yow myn 

heed. 



1 proper rank. 
* make merry. 
' inn. 
5 reward you duly. 



Hold up your hond, withoute more speche." 

Our counseil was nat longe for to seche ; 
Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it 

wys,^^ 78s 

And graunted him with-outen more avys,^^ 

And bad him seye his verdit, as him leste. 

"Lordinges," quod he, "now herkneth 

for the beste; 
But tak it not, I prey yow, in desdeyn; 
This is the poynt, to speken short and 

pleyn, 79° 

That ech of yow, to shorte with your 

weye,^^ 
In this viage, shal telle tales tweye. 
To Caunterbury- ward, I mene it so. 
And hom-ward he shal tellen othere two, 
Of aventures that whylom^'* han bifalle.795 
And which of yow that bereth him best of 

alle. 
That is to seyn, that telleth in this cas 
Tales of best sentence^^ and most solas,^^ 
Shal han a soper at our aller cost''' 
Here in this place, sitting by this post, 800 
Whan that we come agayn fro Caunter- 
bury. 
And for to make yow the more mery, 
I wol my-selven gladly with yow ryde, 
Right at myn owne cost, and be your gyde. 
And who-so wol my lugement withseye 805 
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 
And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so, 
Tel me anon, with-outen wordes mo. 
And I wol erly shape me^^ therfore." 

This thing was graunted, and our othes 

swore 810 

With ful glad herte, and preyden him also 
That he wold vouche-sauf for to do so. 
And that he wolde been our governour. 
And of our tales luge and reportour. 
And sette a soper at a certeyn prys; 815 
And we wold reuled been at his devys,^^ 
In heigh and lowe; and thus, by oon assent, 
We been acorded to his lugement. 
And ther-up-on the wyn was fet^° anon; 
We dronken, and to reste wente echon, 820 
With-outen any lenger taryinge. 

A-morwe, whan that day bigan to 

springe, 
Up roos our host, and was our aller cok,^^ 
And gadrede us togidre, alle in a flok. 







11 deliberate about it. 


12 consideration. 






13 make the journey short. 


1^ formerly. 


' it pleased us. 


3 glittering. 


15 meaning. 


i" amusement. 


^ have not seen. 


5 one time. 


" the expense of us all. 


18 get myself ready 


^ entertain vou. 




15 according to his decision. 


2» brought. 


» plan to talk. 




21 cock of us all. 





CHA UCER 



II 



And forth we riden, a litel more than 

pas/ 825 

Un-to the watering of seint Thomas. 
And there our host bigan his hors areste,^ 
And seyde; "Lordinges, herkneth if yow 

leste. 
Ye woot your forward,^ and I it yow re- 
corded 
If even-song and morwe-song acorde, 830 
Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. 
As ever mote I drinke wyn or ale, 
Who-so be rebel to my lugement 
Shal paye for al that by the weye is 

spent. 
Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer^ 

twinne;^ 835 

He which that hath the shortest shal be- 

ginne. 
Sire knight," quod he, "my maister and 

my lord. 
Now draweth cut, for that is myn acord.^ 
Cometh neer," quod he, "my lady prior- 

esse; 
And ye, sir clerk, lat be your shamfast- 

nesse,^ 840 

Ne studieth noght; ley hond to, every 
• man." 

Anon to drawen every wight bigan. 
And shortly for to tellen, as it was. 
Were it by aventure,^ or sort,^" or cas,^^ 
The sothe^^ is this, the cut fil to the knight. 
Of which ful blythe and glad was every 

wight; 846 

And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun, 
By forward and by composicioun,^^ 
As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes 

mo? 
And whan this goode man saugh it was so. 
As he that wys was and obedient 851 

To kepe his forward by his free assent. 
He seyde: "Sin^'* I shal beginne the 

game, 
What, welcome be the cut, a}^ Goddes 

name ! 
Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I 

seye." 855 

And with that word we riden forth our 

weye; 
And he bigan with right a mery chere^^ 
His tale anon, and seyde in this manere. 



1 a little faster than a walk. 


- stop. 


3 agreement. 




^ remind you of it 


s farther. 


8 depart. 


' judgment. 


' modesty. 


3 accident. 


1° destiny. 


" chance. 


12 truth. 


" compact. 


" since. 


15 in. 


16 countenance. 



THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE 

Here biginneth the Nonne Preestes Tale oj 
the Cok and Hen, Chauntecleer and 
Pertelote. 

A povre widwe somdel stope^^ in age, 
Was whylom dwelling in a narwe cotage, 
Bisyde a grove, stondyng in a dale. 
This widwe, of which I telle yow my tale, 
Sin thilke^^ day that she was last a wyf , 5 
In pacience ladde a ful simple lyf, 
For litel was hir catel^^ and hir rente ;^'^ 
By housbondrye, of such as God hir sente. 
She fond^^ hir-self, and eek hir doghtren 

two. 
Three large sowes hadde she, and namo, 10 
Three kyn, and eek a sheep that highte 

Malle. 
Ful sooty was hir bour,^- and eek hir halle. 
In which she eet ful many a sclendre meel. 
Of poynaunt sauce hir neded never a deel. 
No deyntee morsel passed thurgh hir 

throte; 15 

Hir dyete was accordant to"^ hir cote. 
Repleccioun^^ ne made hir never syk; 
Attempree^^ dyete was al hir phisyk. 
And exercyse, and hertes suffisaunce.'^ 
The goute lette^^ hir no-thing for to 

daunce, 20 

Napoplexye-^ shente-^ nat hir heed; 
No wyn ne drank she, neither whyt ne 

reed; 
Hir bord was served most with whyt and 

blak. 
Milk and broun breed, in which she fond 

no lak, 
Seynd^° bacoun, and somtyme an ey^^ or 

tweye, _ 25 

For she was as it were a maner deye.^^ 

A yerd she hadde, enclosed al aboute 
With stikkes, and a drye dich with-oute. 
In which she hadde a cok, hight Chaunte- 
cleer, 
In al the land of crowing nas'^^ his peer. 30 
His vols was merier than the mery orgon 
On messe-dayes that in the chirche gon; 
Wei sikerer^'* was his crowing in his logge,^*^ 
Than is a clokke, or an abbey orlogge.^^ 
By nature knew he ech ascensioun 35 

Of equinoxial in thiike toun; 

" advanced. " that. i' chattels. ^o income. 

2' provided for. -- bed-chamber. 23 in keeping with. 

-* over-eating. 25 ;i temperate. 26 contentment. 

2' hindered. 28 nor apople.xy. 29 injured. 

30 broiled. " egg. '2 sort of dairywoman. 

'3 was not. '* more certain. '^ lodge. 36 clock. 



12 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



For whan degrees fiftene were ascended, 
Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben 

amended.^ 
His comb was redder than the fyn coral, 
And batailed," as it were a castel-wal. 40 
His bile^ was blak, and as the leet^ it 

shoon ; 
Lyk asur were his legges, and his toon;^ 
His nayles whytter than the HHe flour, 
And lyk the burned gold was his colour. 
This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce 45 
Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plesaunce, 
Whiche were his sustres and his para- 
mours. 
And wonder lyk to him, as of colours. 
Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir 

throte 
Was cleped^ faire damoysele Pertelote. 50 
Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire, 
And compaignable, and bar hirself so 

faire, 
Syn thilke day that she was seven night 

old, 
That trewely she hath the herte in hold^ 
Of Chauntecleer loken^ in every lith f 55 
He loved hir so, that wel was him ther- 

with. 
But such a loye was it to here hem singe. 
Whan that the brighte sonne gan to 

springe, 
In swete accord, "My lief is faren^° in 

londe." 
For thilke tyme, as I have understonde, 60 
Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe. 

And so bifel, that in a daweninge,^^ 
As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle 
Sat on his perche, that was in the halle. 
And next him sat this faire Pertelote, 65 
This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte, 
As man that in his dreem is drecched^" 

sore. 
And whan that Pertelote thus herde him 

rore. 
She was agast, and seyde, "O herte dere. 
What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? 
Ye been a verray^^ sleper, fy for shame! "71 
And he answerde and seyde thus, "ma- 
dame, 
I pray yow, that ye take it nat agrief : 
By god, me mette^^ I was in swich mes- 

chief 



' improved. ^ indented. 

5 toes. ' named. 

8 locked. s limb. 

12 troubled. " true. 



3 bill. 1 jet. 

' possession, safe-keeping, 
'"gone. "dawn. 

" I dreamed. 



Right now, that yet myn herte is sore 

afright. 75 

Now god," quod he, "my sweven^^ rede^® 

aright. 
And keep my body out of foul prisoun ! 
Me mette, how that I romed up and doun 
Withinne our yerde, wher as I saugh a 

beste, 
Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad 

areste 80 

Upon my body, and wolde han had me 

deed. 
His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed; 
And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres. 
With blak, unlyk the remenant of his 

heres; 
His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen 

tweye. 85 

Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; 
This caused me my groning, doutelees." 
"Avoy!" quod she, "fy on yow, hert- 

eleesl 
Alias!" quod she, "for, by that god above, 
Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love; 
I can nat love a coward, by my feith. 91 
For certes, what so any womman seith. 
We alle desyren, if it mighte be. 
To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free,^^ 
And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool, 95 
Ne him that is agast of every tool,^^ 
Ne noon avauntour,^^ by that god above! 
How dorste ye seyn for shame unto your 

love. 
That any thing mighte make yow aferd? 
Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd? 
Alias ! and conne ye been agast of swevenis? 
No-thing, god wot, but vanitee, in sweven 

is. 102 

Swevenes engendren of-" replecciouns. 
And ofte of fume,^^ and of complecciouns,^^ 
Whan humours been to habundant in a 

wight. 105 

Certes this dreem, which ye han met to- 
night, 
Cometh of the grete superfluitee 
Of youre rede^^ colera,"^ pardee. 
Which causeth folk to dreden in here 

dremes 
Of arwes,^^ and of fyr with rede lemes,^^ no 
Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte, 
Of contek,-'' and of whelpes grete and lyte; 



15 dream. " explain. 

19 boaster. 

" temperaments. 

-5 arrows. 



" generous. is weapon. 

-" are caused by. -■ vapor. 

2' red. 24 choler. 

26 flames. -' strife. 



CHAUCER 



13 



Right as the humour of malencolye 
Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye. 
For fere of blake beres,^ or boles^ blake. 
Or elles, blake develes wole hem take. 116 
Of othere humours coude I telle also. 
That werken many a man in sleep ful wo; 
But I wol passe as lightly as I can. 
Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a 

man, 120 

Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of^ 

dremes? 
Now, sire," quod she, "whan we flee fro 

the hemes. 
For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf ; 
Up peril of my soule,* and of my lyf, 
I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat 

lye, 125 

That both of colere, and of malencolye 
Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie. 
Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, 
I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, 
That shul ben for your hele,^ and for your 

prow;^ 130 

And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde, 
The whiche han of here propretee, by 

kinde,^ 
To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. 
Forget not this, for goddes owene love! 
Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun. 135 
Ware^ the sonne in his ascencioun 
Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours 

hote; 
And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote, 
That ye shul have a fevere terciane, 
Or an agu, that may be youre bane.^ 140 
A day or two ye shul have digestyves 
Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves. 
Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere, 
Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, 
Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis,^*' 145 

Of erbe yve,^^ growing in our yerd, that 

mery is; 
Pekke hem up right as they growe, and 

ete hem in. 
Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin! 
Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow namore." 
"Madame," quod he, "grauni mercy of 

your lore. 150 

But natheles, as touching daun^" Catoun, 
That hath of wisdom such a greet renoun, 



' bears. ^ bulls. 

'' by my soul. * healing. 

' nature. ^ take care lest. 

'" berries of the gay-tree. 

12 dominus, lord. 



3 pay no attention to. 
^ profit. 
9 death. 
" ground ivy. 



Though that he bad no dremes for to 

drede, 
By god, men may in olde bokes rede 
Of many a man, more of auctoritee 155 
Than ever Catoun was, so moot I thee,^"^ 
That al the revers seyn of his sentence, 
And han wel founden by experience, 
That dremes ben significaciouns, 
As wel of loye as tribulaciouns 160 

That folk enduren in this lyf present. 
Ther nedeth make of this noon argument; 
The verray preve^'^ sheweth it in dede. 
Oon of the grettest auctours that men 

rede 
Seith thus, that whylom two felawes^^ 

wente 165 

On pilgrimage, in a full good intente; 
And happed so, they come into a toun, 
Wher as ther was swich congregacioun 
Of peple, and eek so streit^^ of herber- 

gage,!^ 169 

That they ne founde as muche as o^^ cotage, 
In which they bothe mighte y-logged be. 
Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee, 
As for that night, departen compaignye; 
And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye. 
And took his logging as it wolde falle. 175 
That oon of hem was logged in a stalle, 
Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough; 
That other man was logged wel y-nough. 
As was his aventure,^^ or his fortune, 
That us governeth alle as in commune.^°i8o 
And so bifel, that, long er it were day, 
This man mette^^ in his bed, ther-as he 

lay. 
How that his felawe gan up-on him calle, 
And seyde, 'alias! for in an oxes stalle 
This night I shal be mordred ther^^ I lye. 
Now help me, dere brother, er I dye ; 1 86 
In alle haste com to me,' he sayde. 
This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde f^ 
But whan that he was wakned of his sleep. 
He turned him, and took of this no keep;^* 
Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee. 
Thus twyes in his sleping dremed he. 192 
And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe 
Cam, as him thoughte, and seide T am now 

slawe f^ 
Bihold my blody woundes, depe and 

wyde! 195 

Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde, 

" may I prosper. " proof. '^ companions. '^ little. 

" lodging. " one. " chance, 

20 commonly. -'dreamed. ^^ v/beTe. 

23 started. -* thought, care. 26 slain. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



For whan degrees fiftene were ascended, 
Thanne crew he, that it mighte nat ben 

amended.^ 
His comb was redder than the fyn coral, 
And batailed,^ as it were a castel-wal, 40 
His bile^ was blak, and as the leet^ it 

shoon; 
Lyk asur were his legges, and his toon;^ 
His nayles whytter than the hhe flour. 
And lyk the burned gold was his colour. 
This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce 45 
Sevene hennes, for to doon al his plesaunce, 
Whiche were his sustres and his para- 
mours, 
And wonder lyk to him, as of colours. 
Of whiche the faireste hewed on hir 

throte 
Was cleped^ faire damoysele Pertelote. 50 
Curteys she was, discreet, and debonaire, 
And compaignable, and bar hirself so 

faire, 
Syn thilke day that she was seven night 

old. 
That trewely she hath the herte in hold'' 
Of Chauntecleer loken^ in every lith f 55 
He loved hir so, that wel was him ther- 

with. 
But such a loye was it to here hem singe. 
Whan that the brighte sonne gan to 

springe, 
In swete accord, "My lief is faren^" in 

londe." 
For thilke tyme, as I have understonde, 60 
Bestes and briddes coude speke and singe. 

And so bifel, that in a daweninge,^^ 
As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle 
Sat on his perche, that was in the halle. 
And next him sat this faire Pertelote, 65 
This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte, 
As man that in his dreem is drecched^" 

sore. 
And whan that Pertelote thus herde him 

rore. 
She was agast, and seyde, "O herte dere. 
What eyleth yow, to grone in this manere? 
Ye been a verray^^ sleper, fy for shame! "71 
And he answerde and seyde thus, "ma- 
dame, 
I pray yow, that ye take it nat agrief : 
By god, me mette^^ I was in swich mes- 

chief 



1 improved. 
5 toes. 
8 locked. 
1- troubled. 



2 indented. 
' named. 
9 limb. 
13 true. 



3 bill. 

^ possession, 
"> gone. 
" I dreamed. 



« jet. 
safe-keeping. 
11 dawn. 



Right now, that yet myn herte is sore 

afright. 75 

Now god," quod he, "my sweven^^ rede^® 

aright. 
And keep my body out of foul prisoun ! 
Me mette, how that I romed up and doun 
Withinne our yerde, wher as I saugh a 

beste, 
Was lyk an hound, and wolde han maad 

areste 80 

Upon my body, and wolde han had me 

deed. 
His colour was bitwixe yelwe and reed; 
And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eres, 
With blak, unlyk the remenant of his 

heres; 
His snowte smal, with glowinge eyen 

tweye. 85 

Yet of his look for fere almost I deye; 
This caused me my groning, doutelees." 
"Avoy!" quod she, "fy on yow, hert- 

elees I 
Alias!" quod she, "for, by that god above, 
Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love; 
I can nat love a coward, by my feith. 91 
For certes, what so any womman seith. 
We alle desyren, if it mighte be. 
To han housbondes hardy, wyse, and free,^^ 
And secree, and no nigard, ne no fool, 95 
Ne him that is agast of every tool,^® 
Ne noon avauntour,^^ by that god above! 
How dorste ye seyn for shame unto your 

love. 
That any thing mighte make yow aferd? 
Have ye no mannes herte, and han a berd? 
Alias! and conne ye been agast of swevenis? 
No-thing, god wot, but vanitee, in sweven 

is. 102 

Swevenes engendren of-" replecciouns. 
And ofte of f ume,^^ and of complecciouns,-^ 
Whan humours been to habundant in a 

wight. 105 

Certes this dreem, which ye han met to- 
night, 
Cometh of the grete superfluitee 
Of youre rede^^ colera,-"^ pardee. 
Which causeth folk to dreden in here 

dremes 
Of arwes,^^ and of fyr with rede lemes,^^ no 
Of grete bestes, that they wol hem byte, 
Of contek,^^ and of whelpes grete and lyte; 



15 dream. '^ explain. 

1' boaster. 

-- temperaments. 

-5 arrows. 



" generous. '^ weapon. 

20 are caused by. -' vapor. 

23 red. " choler. 

26 flames. ^ strife. 



CHAUCER 



13 



Right as the humour of malencolye 
Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye. 
For fere of blake beres,^ or boles'' blake. 
Or elles, blake develes wole hem take. 116 
Of othere humours coude I telle also. 
That werken many a man in sleep ful wo; 
But I wol passe as lightly as I can. 
Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a 

man, 120 

Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of^ 

dremes? 
Now, sire," quod she, ''whan we flee fro 

the bemes. 
For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf ; 
Up peril of my soule,"* and of my lyf, 
I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat 

lye, 125 

That both of colere, and of malencolye 
Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie, 
Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, 
I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, 
That shul ben for your hele,^ and for your 

prow;^ 130 

And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde. 
The whiche han of here propretee, by 

kinde,*^ 
To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. 
Forget not this, for goddes owene love! 
Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun. 135 
Ware^ the sonne in his ascencioun 
Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours 

hote; 
And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote, 
That ye shul have a fevere terciane, 
Or an agu, that may be youre bane.^ 140 
A day or two ye shul have digestyves 
Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves, 
Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere. 
Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, 
Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis,^'' 145 

Of erbe yve,^^ growing in our yerd, that 

mery is; 
Pekk'; hem up right as they growe, and 

ete hem in. 
Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin! 
Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow namore." 
"Madame," quod he, " graunt mercy of 

your lore. 150 

But natheles, as touching daun^- Catoun, 
That hath of wisdom such a greet renoun. 



• bears. - bulls. 

* by ray soul. ' healing. 

' nature. ' take care lest. 

'" berries of the gay-tree. 
'2 dominus, lord. 



' pay no attention to. 
' pro6t. 
« death. 
" ground ivy. 



Though that he bad no dremes for to 

drede. 
By god, men may in olde bokes rede 
Of many a man, more of auctoritee 155 
Than ever Catoun was, so moot I thee,^'^ 
That al the revers seyn of his sentence, 
And han wel founden by experience, 
That dremes ben significaciouns, 
As wel of loye as tribulaciouns 160 

That folk enduren in this lyf present. 
Ther nedeth make of this noon argument; 
The verray preve^* sheweth it in dede. 
Oon of the grettest auctours that men 

rede 
Seith thus, that whylom two felawes^^ 

wente 165 

On pilgrimage, in a full good intente; 
And happed so, they come into a toun, 
Wher as ther was swich congregacioun 
Of peple, and eek so streit^^ of herber- 

gage,!^ 169 

That they ne founde as muche as o^^ cotage, 
In which they bothe mighte y-logged be. 
Wherfor thay mosten, of necessitee. 
As for that night, departen compaignye; 
And ech of hem goth to his hostelrye, 
And took his logging as it wolde falle. 1 75 
That oon of hem was logged in a stalle, 
Fer in a yerd, with oxen of the plough; 
That other man was logged wel y-nough. 
As was his aventure,^^ or his fortune, 
That us governeth alle as in commune. -° 180 
And so bifel, that, long er it were day, 
This man mette^^ in his bed, ther-as he 

lay, 
How that his felawe gan up-on him calle, 
And seyde, 'alias! for in an oxes stalle 
This night I shal be mordred ther^^ I lye. 
Now help me, dere brother, er I dye; 186 
In alle haste com to me,' he sayde. 
This man out of his sleep for fere abrayde ;~^ 
But whan that he was wakned of his sleep, 
He turned him, and took of this no keep;""* 
Him thoughte his dreem nas but a vanitee. 
Thus twyes in his sleping dremed he. 192 
And atte thridde tyme yet his felawe 
Cam, as him thoughte, and seide 'I am now 

slawe ;"* 
Bihold my blody woundes, depe and 

wyde! 195 

Arys up erly in the morwe-tyde, 

'^ may I prosper. " proof. '^ companions. " little. 

'" lorlsing. " one. " chance, 

-"commonly. -'dreamed. '-where. 

-' started. -* thought, care. " slain. 



i6 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture ;36s 
And after wol I telle his a venture. 

Whan that the month in which the 

world bigan, 
That highte March, whan god first maked 

man, 
Was complet, and y-passed were also, 
Sin March bigan, thritty dayes and two, 
Bifel that Chauntecleer, in al his pryde,37i 
His seven wyves walking by his syde, 
Caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne, 
That in the signe of Taurus hadde y-ronne 
Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat 

more; 375 

And knew by kynde,^ and by noon other 

lore," 
That it was pryme,^ and crew with blisful 

stevene.'' 
"The sonne," he sayde, "is clomben up on 

hevene 
Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis.^ 
Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, 380 
Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they 

singe, 
And see the fresshe floures how they 

springe; 
Ful is myn hert of revel and solas." 
But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas;^ 
For ever the latter ende of loye is wo. 385 
God woot that worldly loye is sone ago -^ 
And if a rethor^ coude faire endyte. 
He in a chronique saufly^ mighte it write. 
As for a sovereyn notabilitee.^" 
Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; 
This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake, 391 
As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, 
That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. 
Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence. 

A col-fox,^^ ful of sly iniquitee, 395 

That in the grove hadde woned^^ yeres 

three. 
By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast,^^ 
The same night thurgh-out the hegges^'* 

brast^^ 
Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire 
Was wont, and eek his wj^es, to repair e; 
And in a bed of wortes^^ stille he lay, 401 
Til it was passed undern^'^ of the day, 
Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle, 
As gladly doon thise homicydes alle, 



3 nine o'clock A. M. 

' a sad accident befell him. 

' safely. '" wonder. 

12 premeditated. " hedges. 
" the middle of the forenoon. 



1 nature. 


= teaching. 


* voice. 


5 certainly. 


' gone. 


s rhetorician 


" black fox. 


12 lived. 


" burst. 


16 herbs. 



That in awayt liggen^^ to mordre men. 405 

false mordrer, lurking in thy den ! 

O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! 

False dissimilour,^^ Greek Sinon, 

That broghtest Troye al outrely^" to sorwe! 

Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe,4io 
That thou into that yerd flough fro the 

hemes! 
Thou were ful wel y- warned by thy dremes, 
That thilke day was perilous to thee. 
But what that god forwot^^ mot nedes^^ 

be, 
After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis. 415 
Witnesse on him^^ that any perfit clerk is, 
That in scole is gret altercacioun 
In this matere, and greet disputisoun. 
And hath ben of an hundred thousand 

men. 
But I ne can not bulte it to the bren,^'* 420 
As can the holy doctour Augustyn, 
Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, 
Whether that goddes worthy forwiting 
Streyneth^^ me nedely^® for to doon a 

thing, 
(Nedely clepe I simple necessitee) ; 425 

Or elles, if free choys be graunted me 
To do that same thing, or do it noght, 
Though god forwot it, er that it was 

wroght; 
Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del 
But by necessitee condicionel. 430 

1 wol not han to do of swich matere; 
My tale is of a cok, as ye may here. 

That took his counseil of his wyf, with 

sorwe. 
To walken in the yerd upon that morwe 
That he had met the dreem, that I yow 

tolde. _ 435 

Wommennes counseils been ful ofte 

colde;-^ 
Wommannes counseil broghte us first to 

wo. 
And made Adam fro paradys to go, 
Ther as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. 
But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese. 
If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, 441 
Passe over, for I seyde it in my game.^^ 
Rede auctours,^^ wher they trete of swich 

matere. 
And what thay seyn of wommen ye may 

here. 

'8 lie. 19 dissembler. =" absolutely. -' foresees. 

22 necessarily. -^ let him witness it. 

-■• sift the matter. ^s constrains. 

-6 necessarily. -' baneful, ^s jn sport. 29 authors. 



CHA UCER 



17 



Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat 

myne; 445 

I can noon harm of no womman divyne.^ 

Faire in the sond,^ to bathe hir merily, 

Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by, 

Agayn the sonne; and Chauntecleer so 

free 
Song merier than the mermayde in the 

see; 
For Phisiologus seith sikerly, 451 

How that they singen wel and merily. 
And so bifel, that as he caste his ye, 
Among the wortes,^ on a boterflye, 
He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe.455 
No-thing ne liste him thanne for to crowe. 
But cryde anon, "cok, cok," and up he 

sterte, 
As man that was affrayed in his herte. 
For naturelly a beest desyreth flee 
Fro his contrarie, if he may it see, 460 

Though he never erst^ had seyn it with his 

ye. 
This Chauntecleer, whan he gan him 

espye. 
He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon 
Seyde, "Gen til sire, alias! wher wol ye 

gon? 
Be ye affrayed of me that am your freend? 
Now certes, I were worse than a feend, 466 
If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye. 
I am nat come your counseil^ for tespye;® 
But trewely, the cause of my cominge 
Was only for to herkne how that ye singe. 
For trewely ye have as mery a stevene,^ 471 
As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene ; 
Therwith ye han in musik more felinge 
Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe. 
My lord your fader (god his soule blesse!) 
And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse, 476 
Han in myn hous y-been, to my gret ese,^ 
And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese. 
But for men speke of singing, I wol saye, 
So mote I brouke^ wel myn eyen^° tweye,48o 
Save yow, I herde never man so singe. 
As dide your fader in the morweninge ; 
Certes, it was of herte, al that he song. 
And for to make his voys the more strong, 
He wolde so peyne him,^^ that with both 

his yen^° 485 

He moste^- winke, so loude he wolde 

cry en, 

' declare. - sand. 3 herbs. * before. 

' secrets. ^ to spy out. ' voice. s pleasure. 

° have the use of. i" eyes. 

" take such pains. '^ needed to. 



And stonden on his tiptoon^^ therwithal. 
And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. 
And eek he was of swich discrecioun, 
That ther nas no man in no regioun 490 
That him in song or wisdom mighte passe. 
I have weel rad in daun Burnel the Asse, 
Among his vers, how that ther was a cok. 
For that a preestes sone yaf him a knok 
Upon his leg, whyl he was yong and nyce. 
He made him for to lese^'' his benefyce. 496 
But certeyn, ther nis no comparisoun 
Bitwix the wisdom and discrecioun 
Of youre fader, and of his subtiltee. 
Now singeth, sire, for seinte^^ charitee, 500 
Let see, conne ye your fader countre- 

fete?"i*5 
This Chauntecleer his winges gan to bete,^^ 
As man that coude his tresoun nat espye, 
So was he ravisshed with his flaterye. 

Alias ! ye lordes, many a f als flatour^^sos 
Is in your courtes, and many a losen- 

geour,^^ 
That plesen yow wel more, by my feith, 
Than he that soothfastnesse^° unto yow 

seith. 
Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye; 
Beth^^ war,^^ ye lordes, of hir trecherye.510 
This Chauntecleer stood hye up-on his 

toos, 
Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen 

cloos. 
And gan to crowe loude for the nones; 
And daun Russel the fox sterte up at 

ones,^^ 
And by the gargat^"* hente^^ Chauntecleer, 
And on his bak toward the wode him 

beer,^^ 516 

For yet ne was ther no man that him 

sewed. ^^ 
destinee, that mayst nat ben eschewed !^^ 
Alias, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the 

bemes ! 
Alias, his wyf ne roghte-^ nat of dremes ! 520 
And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. 
O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce,^° 
Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, 
And in thy service dide al his poweer. 
More for delyt, than world to multiplye, 
Why woldestow^^ suffre him on thy day to 

dye? 526 



" tip-toes. 


" lose. " holy. 


« imitate. " flap. 


18 flatterer. 


" deceiver. 


20 truth. 21 be. 


22 wary. 


23 at once. 


24 throat. 26 seized. 


26 bore. 


2' followed. 


28 avoided. 


29 cared. 


'» delight. 


31 wouldst thou. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture ;365 
And after wol I telle his aventure. 

Whan that the month in which the 

world bigan, 
That highte March, whan god first maked 

man, 
Was complet, and y-passed were also, 
Sin March bigan, thritty dayes and two, 
Bifel that Chauntecleer, in al his pryde,37i 
His seven wyves walking by his syde, 
Caste up his eyen to the brighte sonne, 
That in the signe of Taurus hadde y-ronne 
Twenty degrees and oon, and somwhat 

more; 375 

And knew by kynde,^ and by noon other 

lore,2 
That it was pryme,^ and crew with blisful 

stevene.'' 
"The Sonne," he sayde, "is clomben up on 

hevene 
Fourty degrees and oon, and more, y-wis.^ 
Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, 380 
Herkneth thise blisful briddes how they 

singe, 
And see the fresshe floures how they 

springe; 
Ful is myn hert of revel and solas." 
But sodeinly him fil a sorweful cas;^ 
For ever the latter ende of loye is wo. 3S5 
God woot that worldly loye is sone ago;^ 
And if a rethor^ coude faire endyte. 
He in a chronique saufly^ mighte it write, 
As for a sovereyn notabilitee.^^ 
Now every wys man, lat him herkne me; 
This storie is al-so trewe, I undertake, 391 
As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, 
That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. 
Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence. 

A col-fox,^^ ful of sly iniquitee, 395 

That in the grove hadde woned^" yeres 

three, 
By heigh imaginacioun forn-cast,^^ 
The same night thurgh-out the hegges^^ 

brast^^ 
Into the yerd, ther Chauntecleer the faire 
Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire; 
And in a bed of wortes'^ stille he lay, 401 
Til it was passed undern^^ of the day, 
Wayting his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle, 
As gladly doon thise homicydes alle, 



3 nine o'clock A. M. 
' a sad accident befell him. 
' safely. '" wonder. 

'3 premeditated. '* hedges. 
" the middle of the forenoon. 



1 nature. 


' teaching. 


* voice. 


5 certainly. 


' gone. 


^ rhetorician 


'1 black fox. 


>2 lived. 


16 burst. 


'6 herbs. 



That in awayt liggen^^ to mordre men. 405 

O false mordrer, lurking in thy den! 

O newe Scariot, newe Genilon! 

False dissimilour,^^ O Greek Sinon, 

That broghtest Troye al outrely^^ to sorwe! 

Chauntecleer, acursed be that morwe,4io 
That thou into that yerd flough fro the 

hemes ! 
Thou were ful wel y- warned by thy dremes, 
That thilke day was perilous to thee. 
But what that god forwot^^ mot nedes^^ 

be. 
After the opinioun of certeyn clerkis. 415 
Witnesse on him'^^ that any perfit clerk is, 
That in scole is gret altercacioun 
In this matere, and greet disputisoun. 
And hath ben of an hundred thousand 

men. 
But I ne can not bulte it to the bren,^^ 420 
As can the holy doctour Augustyn, 
Or Boece, or the bishop Bradwardyn, 
Whether that goddes worthy forwiting 
Streyneth-^ me nedely^^ for to doon a 

thing, 
(Nedely clepe I simple necessitee) ; 425 

Or elles, if free choys be graunted me 
To do that same thing, or do it noght, 
Though god forwot it, er that it was 

wroght; 
Or if his witing streyneth nevere a del 
But by necessitee condicionel. 430 

1 wol not han to do of swich matere; 
My tale is of a cok, as ye may here. 

That took his counseil of his wyf, with 

sorwe. 
To walken in the yerd upon that morwe 
That he had met the dreem, that I yow 

tolde. 435 

Wommennes counseils been ful ofte 

coldef 
Wommannes counseil broghte us first to 

wo. 
And made Adam fro paradys to go, 
Ther as he was ful mery, and wel at ese. 
But for I noot, to whom it mighte displese, 
If I counseil of wommen wolde blame, 441 
Passe over, for I seyde it in my game.^^ 
Rede auctours,^^ wher they trete of swich 

matere, 
And what thay seyn of wommen ye may 

here. 

18 lie. w dissembler. ^o absolutely. -i foresees. 

22 necessarily. 23 let him witness it. 

-■• sift the matter. 25 constrains. 

26 necessarily. 27 baneful, ^s jn sjjort. ^9 authors. 



CHA UCER 



17 



Thise been the cokkes wordes, and nat 

myne; 445 

I can noon harm of no womman divyne.^ 

Faire in the sond,^ to bathe hir merily, 

Lyth Pertelote, and alle hir sustres by, 

Agayn the sonne; and Chauntecleer so 

free 
Song merier than the mermayde in the 

see; 
For Phisiologus seith sikerly, 451 

How that they singen wel and merily. 
And so bifel, that as he caste his ye, 
Among the wortes,^ on a boterfiye. 
He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe.455 
No-thing ne liste him thanne for to crowe. 
But cryde anon, "cok, cok," and up he 

sterte, 
As man that was affrayed in his herte. 
For naturelly a beest desyreth flee 
Fro his contrarie, if he may it see, 460 

Though he never erst^ had seyn it with his 

This Chauntecleer, whan he gan him 

espye, 
He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon 
Seyde, "Gen til sire, alias! wher wol ye 

gon? 
Be ye affrayed of me that am your freend? 
Now certes, I were worse than a feend, 466 
If I to yow wolde harm or vileinye. 
I am nat come your counseil^ for tespye;^ 
But trewely, the cause of my cominge 
Was only for to herkne how that ye singe. 
For trewely ye have as mery a stevene,^ 471 
As eny aungel hath, that is in hevene ; 
Therwith ye han in musik more felinge 
Than hadde Boece, or any that can singe. 
My lord your fader (god his soule blesse!) 
And eek your moder, of hir gentilesse, 476 
Han in myn hous y-been, to my gret ese,^ 
And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese. 
But for men speke of singing, I wol saye. 
So mote I brouke^ wel myn eyen^** tweye,48o 
Save yow, I herde never man so singe. 
As dide your fader in the morweninge ; 
Certes, it was of herte, al that he song. 
And for to make his voys the more strong. 
He wolde so peyne him,^^ that with both 

his yen'^ 485 

He moste'" winke, so loude he wolde 

cryen. 



' declare. - sand. 

'■' secrets. '> to spy out. 

' have the use of. 
" take such pains. 



' herbs. 
' voice. 
"> eyes. 
" needed to. 



* before. 
' pleasure. 



And stonden on his tiptoon^^ therwithal, 
And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. 
And eek he was of swich discrecioun. 
That ther nas no man in no regioun 490 
That him in song or wisdom mighte passe. 
I have weel rad in daun Burnel the Asse, 
Among his vers, how that ther was a cok. 
For that a preestes sone yaf him a knok 
Upon his leg, whyl he was yong and nyce, 
He made him for to lese^^ his benefyce. 496 
But certeyn, ther nis no comparisoun 
Bitwix the wisdom and discrecioun 
Of youre fader, and of his subtiltee. 
Now singeth, sire, for seinte^^ charitee, 500 
Let see, conne ye your fader countre- 

fete? "IS 
This Chauntecleer his winges gan to bete,^^ 
As man that coude his tresoun nat espye, 
So was he ravisshed with his flaterye. 

Alias! ye lordes, many a fals flatour^^sos 
Is in your courtes, and many a losen- 

geour,^^ 
That plesen yow wel more, by my feith. 
Than he that soothfastnesse^° unto yow 

seith. 
Redeth Ecclesiaste of flaterye; 
Beth-^ war,^^ ye lordes, of hir trecherye.510 
This Chauntecleer stood hye up-on his 

toos, 
Strecching his nekke, and heeld his eyen 

cloos. 
And gan to crowe loude for the nones; 
And daun Russel the fox sterte up at 

ones,^^ 
And by the gargat^^ hente-^ Chauntecleer, 
And on his bak toward the wode him 

beer,^^ 516 

For yet ne was ther no man that him 

sewed. ^" 
O destinee, that mayst nat ben eschewed !^^ 
Alias, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the 

bemes ! 
Alias, his wyf ne roghte'-^ nat of dremes! 520 
And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce. 
O Venus, that art goddesse of plesaunce,^° 
Sin that thy servant was this Chauntecleer, 
i\nd in thy service dide al his poweer. 
More for delyt, than world to multiplye, 
Why woldestow^^ suffre him on thy day to 

dye? 526 



'3 tip-toes. " lose. 

" flatterer. " deceiver. 

-2 wary. '" at once. 

-' bore. '' followed. 

2» cared. '" delight. 



1 holy. 



" imitate. 
=» truth. 
»* throat. 
^ avoided. 
" wouldst thou 



>' flap. 
21 be. 
" seized. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



O Gaufred, dere mayster soverayn, 

That, whan thy worthy king Richard was 

slayn 
With shot, compleynedest his deth so sore, 
Why ne hadde I^ now thy sentence^ and 

thy lore,^ 530 

The Friday for to chide, as diden ye? 
(For on a Friday soothly slayn was he.) 
Than wolde I shewe yow how that I coude 

pleyne'^ 
For Chauntecleres drede,^ and for his 

peyne.^ 
Certes, swich^ cry ne lamentacioun 535 
Was never of ladies maad, whan Ilioun 
Was wonne, and Pirrus with his streite^ 

swerd. 
Whan he hadde hent^ king Priam by the 

herd, 
And slayn him (as saith us Eneydos), 
As maden alle the hennes in the clos,^° 540 
Whan they had seyn of Chauntecleer the 

sighte. 
But sovereynly dame Pertelote shrighte, 
Ful louder than dide Hasdrubales wyf, 
Whan that hir housbond hadde lost his lyf. 
And that the Romayns hadde brend^^ 

Cartage. 545 

She was so ful of torment and of rage, 
That wilfully into the fyr she sterte,^^ 
And brende hir-selven with a stedfast 

herte. 
woful hennes, right so cryden ye. 
As, whan that Nero brende the citee 550 
Of Rome, cryden senatoures wyves, 
For that hir housbondes losten alle hir 

lyves; 
Withouten gilt this Nero hath hem slayn. 
Now wol I torne to my tale agayn. 

This sely^^ widwe, and eek hir doghtres 

two, _ 555 

Herden thise hennes crye and maken wo. 
And out at dores sterten thay anoon. 
And syen^'* the fox toward the grove goon, 
And bar upon his bak the cok away; 559 
And cryden, "Out! harrow! and weylaway! 
Ha, ha, the fox!" and after him they ran, 
And eek with staves many another man; 
Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and 

Gerland, 
And Malkin, with a distaf in hir hand; 



1 had I not. 


2 learning. 


' knowledge 


^ lament. 


' fear. 


' grief. 


' such. 


8 drawn. 


' seized. 


10 enclosure. 


" burned. 


'2 leaped. 


" simple. 




1^ saw. 



Ran cow and calf, and eek the verray 

hogges, 565 

So were they fered for^^ berking of the 

dogges 
And shouting of the men and wimmen eke, 
They ronne so, hem thoughte hir herte 

breke. 
They yelleden as feendes doon^^ in helle; 
The dokes cryden as^'^ men wolde hem 

quelle ;^^ 570 

The gees for fere flowen over the trees; 
Out of the hyve cam the swarm of bees; 
So hidous was the noyse, a ! benedicite! 
Certes, he lakke Straw, and his meynee,^^ 
Ne maden^° never shoutes half so shrille, 
Whan that they wolden any Fleming kille. 
As thilke day was maad upon the fox. 577 
Of bras thay broghten bemes,"^ and of 

box,22 

Of horn, of boon, in whiche they blewe and 

pouped,"^ 
And therwithal they shryked and they 

houped;^^ 580 

It semed as that heven sholde falle. 
Now, gode men, I pray yow herkneth 

alle! 
Lo, how fortune turneth sodeinly 
The hope and pryde eek of hir enemy! 
This cok, that lay upon the foxes bak, 585 
In al his drede, un-to the fox he spak. 
And seyde, "sire, if that I were as ye, 
Yet sholde I seyn (as wis^^ god helpe me), 
' Turneth agayn, ye proude cherles alle! 
A verray pestilence up-on yow falle ! 590 
Now am I come un-to this wodes syde, 
Maugree your heed,^^ the cok shal heer 

abyde; 
I wol him ete in feith, and that anon.' " 
The fox answerde, "in feith, it shal be 

don,"— 
And as he spak that word, al sodeinly 595 
This cok brak"'' from his mouth deliverly,^^ 
And heighe^^ up-on a tree he fleigh anon. 
And whan the fox saugh that he was 

y-gon, 
"Alias!" quod he, "O Chauntecleer, alias! 
I have to yow," quod he, "y-doon trespas, 
In-as-muche as I maked yow aferd, 601 
Whan I yow hente, and broghte out of the 

yerd; 



15 frightened by. is Jq. " as if. "^ kill. '' company. 
21 did not make. 21 trumpets. -- box -wood. 

"3 puffed. 24 whooped. -^ surely. 

26 in spite of your head; in spite of all you can do. 
2' broke. 23 nimbly. 29 high. 



CHAUCER 



19 



But, sire, I dide it in no wikke^ entente; 
Com doun, and I shal telle yow what I 

mente. 
I shal seye sooth to yow, god help me so." 
"Nay than," quod he, "I shrewe^ us bothe 

two, 606 

And first I shrewe my-self , bothe blood and 

bones, 
If thou bigyle me of ter than ones. 
Thou shalt namore, thurgh thy flaterye 
Do me to^ singe and winke with myn 

ye. 610 

For he that winketh, whan he sholde see, 
Al wilfully, god lat him never thee! "^ 
"Nay," quod the fox, "but god yeve^ him 

meschaunce,^ 
That is so undiscreet of governaunce,'' 
That iangleth^ whan he sholde holde his 

pees." 615 

Lo, swich it is for to be recchelees,^ 
And necligent, and truste on flaterye. 
But ye that holden this tale a folye/° 
As of a fox, or of a cok and hen, 
Taketh the moralitee, good men. 620 

For seint Paul seith, that al that writen is, 
To^^ our doctryne^^ it is y-write, y-wis. 
Taketh the fruyt, and lat the chaf be stille. 

Now, gode god, if that it be thy wille, 
As seith my lord, so make us alle good men; 
And bringe us to his heighe blisse. Amen. 

THE PARDONER'S TALE 

Heere higynneth the Pardoners Tale 

In Flaundres whylom was a companye 
Of yonge folk, that haunteden^^ folye, 136 
As ryot, hasard,^^ stewes,^^ and tavernes, 
Wher-as, with harpes, lutes, and giternes,^^ 
They daunce and pleye at dees bothe day 

and night. 
And ete also and drinken over hir might, 
Thurgh which they doon the devel 

sacrifyse 141 

With-in that develes temple, in cursed 

\vyse. 
By superfluitee abhominable; 
Hir othes been so gret and so dampnable, 
That it is grisly for to here hem swere; 145 
Our blissed lordes body they to-tere;^'' 



• wicked. - curse. 

5 give. ^ bad luck. 

' careless. '" silly thing. 

'2 teaching. " practised. 

IS brothels. '' guitars. 



' make me. * prosper. 

' self-control. ^ prattles. 

1' for. 

'< gambling. 

" tear in pieces. 



Hem thoughte'^ lewes rente him noght 

ynough; 
And ech of hem at otheres sinne lough. 
And right anon than comen tombesteres'^ 
Fetys^^ and smale, and yonge fruytesteres,""^ 
Singers with harpes [eek, and] wafereres,"^ 
Whiche been the verray develes ofBiceres 
To kindle and blowe the fyr of [luxurye], 
That is annexed un-to glotonye; 
The holy writ take I to my witnesse, 155 
That luxurie is in wyn and dronkenesse. 



Herodes (who so wel the stories soughte) 
Whan he of wyn was replet at his feste, 161 
Ryght at his owene table he yaf his heste^^ 
To sleen the Baptist John ful giltelees. 

Senek^"^ seith eek a good word doutelees ; 
He seith, he can no difference finde 165 

Bitwix a man that is out of his minde 
And a man which that is dronkelewe,^^ 
But that woodnesse,-^ yfallen in a shrewe,"^ 
Persevereth lenger than doth dronken- 
esse. 
glotonye, ful of cursednesse, 1 70 

O cause first of our confusioun, 
O original of our dampnacioun, 
Til Crist had boght us with his blood 

agayn ! 
Lo, how dere, shortly for to sayn, 
Aboght"^ was thilke cursed vileinye; 175 
Corrupt was al this world for glotonye! 

Adam our fader, and his ^vyf also. 
Fro Paradys to labour and to wo 
Were driven for that vyce, it is no drede;^^ 
For whyl that Adam fasted, as I rede, 1 80 
He was in Paradys ; and whan that he 
Eet of the fruyt defended'^*^ on the tree, 
Anon he was out-cast to wo and peyne. 
O glotonye, on thee wel oghte us pleyne!^^ 
O, wiste a man how many maladyes 185 
Folwen of excesse and of glotonyes. 
He wolde been the more mesurable^" 
Of his diete, sittinge at his table. 
Alias! the shorte throte, the tendre mouth, 
Maketh that, Est and West, and North 
and South, 190 

In erthe, in eir, in water men to-s^^inke^^ 
To getc a glotoun deyntee mete and 
drinke ! 



" it seemed to them. 

=' fruit sellers. 

-' Seneca. 

-' wretch. ^ bought. 

^' complain. 



" dancing girls. * graceful. 

-2 confectioners. -' command. 

" a drunkard. -^ madness. 

" without doubt. '" forbidden. 

32 temperate. " labor hard. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Of this matere, O Paul, wel canstow trete, 
"Mete un-to wombe/ and wombe eek 

un-to mete, 
Shal god destroyen bothe," as Paulus 

seith. 195 

Alias! a foul thing is it, by my feith, 
To seye this word, and fouler is the dede, 
Whan man so drinketh of the whyte and 

rede. 

That of his throte he maketh his privee, 

Thurgh thilke cursed superfluitee. 200 

The apostel weping seith ful pitously, 

"Ther walken many of whiche yow told 

have I, 
I seye it now weping with pitous voys, 
That they been enemys of Cristes croys,^ 
Of whiche the ende is deeth, wombe^ is her 

god." 205 



How gret labour and cost is thee to 

fynde!^ 
Thise cokes, how they stampe, and 

streyne,* and grinde, 210 

And turnen substaunce in-to accident. 
To fulfil le al thy likerous^ talent!^ 
Out of the harde bones knokke they 
The mary,'^ for they caste noght a-wey 
That may go thurgh the golet softe and 

swote;^ 215 

Of spicerye, of leef, and bark, and rote^ 
Shal been his sauce ymaked by delyt. 
To make him yet a newer appetyt. 
But certes, he that haunteth swich 

delyces^^ 
Is deed, whyl that he liveth in tho vyces. 
A [cursed] thing is wyn, and dronken- 

esse 221 

Is ful of stryving^^ and of wrecchednesse. 
O dronke man, disfigured is thy face, 
Sour is thy breeth, foul artow to embrace, 
And thurgh thy dronke nose semeth the 

soun^^ 225 

As though thou seydest ay "Sampsoun, 

Sampsoun," 
And yet, god wot, Sampsoun drank never 

no wyn. 
Thou fallest, as it were a stiked swyn; 
Thy tonge is lost, and al thyn honest 

cure;^^ 
For dronkenesse is verray sepulture 230 

' belly. '^ cross. ^ maintain. * labor. 

5 dainty. ^ appetite. ' marrow. ^ sweetly, 

'root. '"pleasures. "strife. '-sound. 

13 care for honorable reputation. 



Of mannes wit and his discrecioun. 
In whom that drinke hath dominacioun, 
He can no conseil kepe, it is no drede. 
Now kepe yow fro the whyte and fro the 

rede. 
And namely fro the whyte wyn of Lepe,235 
That is to selle in Fishstrete or in Chepe. 
This wyn of Spayne crepeth subtilly 
In othere wynes, growing faste by. 
Of which ther ryseth swich fumositee,^^ 
That whan a man hath dronken draughtes 

three, 240 

And weneth^^ that he be at hoom in Chepe, 
He is in Spayne, right at the toune of 

Lepe, 
Nat at the Rochel, ne at Burdeux toun; 
And thanne wol he seye, "Sampsoun, 

Sampsoun." 
But herkneth, lordings, o word, I yow 

preye, 245 

That alle the sovereyn actes, dar I seye. 
Of victories in the olde testament, 
Thurgh verray^^ god, that is omnipotent, 
Were doon in abstinence and in preyere; 
Loketh the Bible, and ther ye may it lere. 
Loke, Attila, the grete conquerour, 251 
Deyde^'^ in his sleep, with shame and dis- 
honour, 
Bledinge ay at his nose in dronkenesse; 
A capitayn shoulde live in sobernesse. 
And over al this, avyseth yow^^ right wel 255 
What was comaunded un-to Lamuel — 
Nat Samuel, but Lamuel, seye I — 
Redeth the Bible, and finde it expresly 
Of wyn-yeving^^ to hem that han lustyse; 
Namore of this, for it may wel suffyse. 260 
And now that I have spoke of glotonye, 
Now wol I yow defenden^*' hasardrye.^^ 
Hasard is verray moder of lesinges,^^ 
And of deceite, and cursed forsweringes,^^ 
Blaspheme of Crist, manslaughtre, and 

wast^^ also 265 

Of cateP^ and of tyme ; and f orthermo. 
It is repreve^® and contrarie of honour 
For to ben holde^^ a commune hasardour. 
And ever the hyer he is of estaat. 
The more is he holden desolaat.^^ 270 

If that a prince useth hasardrye, 
In alle governaunce and policye 
He is, as by commune opinoun, 
Yholde the lasse in reputacioun. 

'■• confusing fumes. 

" died. '5 consider. 

2' gambling. 22 jjes. 

25 wealth. 26 a reproach. 



'5 thinks. 
'9 giving. 
23 perjury. 
2' known as. 



IS the true. 
2» forbid. 
2^ waste. 
25 shunned. 



CHA UCER 



21 



Stilbon, that was a wys embassadour,275 
Was sent to Corinthe, in ful greet honour, 
Fro Lacidomie, to make hir aUiaunce. 
And whan he cam, him happede, par 

chaunce, 
That alle the grettest that were of that 

lond, 
Pleyinge atte hasard he hem fond. 280 

For which, as sone as it mighte be. 
He staP him hoom'^ agayn to his contree, 
And seyde, "Ther wol I nat lese^ my 

name; 
Ne I wol nat take on me so greet defame,^ 
Yow for to allye un-to none hasardours. 285 
Sendeth othere wyse embassadours ; 
For, by my trouthe, me were lever^ dye. 
Than I yow sholde to hasardours allye. 
For ye that been so glorious in honours 
Shul nat allyen yow with hasardours 290 
As by my wil, ne as by my tretee." 
This wyse philosophre thus seyde he. 

Loke eek that to the king Demetrius 
The king of Parthes, as the book seith 

us, 
Sente him a paire of dees^ of gold in scorn. 
For he hadde used hasard ther-bif orn ; 296 
For which he heeld his glorie or his renoun 
At no value or reputacioun. 
Lordes may fynden other maner pley 
Honeste ynough to dryve the day awey. 300 
Now wol I speke of othes false and grete 
A word or two, as olde bokes trete. 
Gret swering is a thing abhominable. 
And fals swering is yet more reprevable. 
The heighe god forbad swering at al, 305 
Witnesse on Mathew; but in special 
Of swering seith the holy leremye, 
"Thou shalt seye sooth^ thyn othes, and 

nat lye, 
And swere in dome,'^ and eek in right- 

wisnesse;" 
But ydel swering is a cursednesse. 310 

Biho!d and see, that in the firste table 
Of heighe goddes hestes^ honurable. 
How that the seconde heste of him is 

this— 
"Tak nat my name in ydeP or amis." 
Lo, rather he forbedeth swich swering 315 
Than homicyde or many a cursed thing; 
I seye that, as by ordre, thus it stondeth; 
This knowen, that^" his hestes under- 

stondeth, 

'returned. -lose. 'dishonor. < I would rather. 

' dice. * truthfully. ' judgment. 

8 commandments. • in vain. 'i those who. 



How that the second heste of god is that. 
And forther over, I wol thee telle al plat,^^ 
That vengeance shal nat parten^^ from his 

hous, 321 

That of his othes is to outrageous. 
"By goddes precious herte, and by his 

nayles, 
And by the blode of Crist, that it is in 

Hayles, 
Seven is my chaunce, and thyn is cink^^ 

and treye;^^ 325 

By goddes armes, if thou falsly pleye. 
This dagger shal thurgh-out thyn herte 

go"- 
This fruyt cometh of the bicched'^^ bones 

two, 
Forswering, ire, falsnesse, homicyde. 
Now, for the love of Crist that for us dyde, 
Leveth your othes, bothe grete and smale; 
But, sirs, now wol I telle forth my tale. 332 
Thise ryotoures three, of whiche I telle, 
Longe erst er pryme'^^ rong of any belle, 
Were set hem in a taverne for to drinke; 335 
And as they satte, they herde a belle clinke 
B if orn a cors, was caried to his grave; 
That oon of hem gan callen to his knave, 
" Go bet,"^'' quod he, " and axe redily. 
What cors is this that passeth heer forby; 
And look that thou reporte his name 

wel." 341 

"Sir," quod this boy, "it nedeth 

neveradel.^^ 
It was me told, er ye cam heer, two houres; 
He was, pardee, an old felawe^^ of youres; 
And sodeynly he was yslayn to-night, 345 
For-dronke,"° as he sat on his bench 

upright; 
Ther cam a privee theef, men clepeth^^ 

Deeth, 
That in this contree al the peple sleeth. 
And with his spere he smoot his herte 

atwo, 349 

And wente his wey with-outen wordes mo. 
He hath a thousand slayn this pestilence: 
And, maister, er ye come in his presence, 
Me thinketh that it were necessarie 
For to be war of swich an adversarie : 
Beth redy for to mete him evermore. 355 
Thus taughte me my dame, I sey namore." 
"By seinte Marie," seyde this taverner, 
"The child seith sooth,'' for he hath slayn 

this yeer, 

"plainly. '-depart, "five. '< three. " cursed. _ 

'« nine o'clock A. M. " quickly. '' there is no need of it. 
15 companion. =" dead drunk. -'name. 22 truth. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Henne^ over a myle, with-in a greet village, 
Both man and womman, child and hyne,^ 

and page. 360 

I trowe his habitacioun be there; 
To been avysed^ greet wisdom it were, 
Er that he dide a man a dishonour." 
"Ye, goddes armes," quod this ryotour, 
" Is it swich peril with him for to mete? 365 
I shal him seke by wey and eek by strete, 
I make avow to goddes digne^ bones ! 
Herkneth, felawes, we three been al ones;^ 
Lat ech of us holde up his hond til other. 
And ech of us bicomen otheres brother, 370 
And we wol sleen this false tray tour Deeth; 
He shal be slayn, which that so many 

sleeth. 
By goddes dignitee, er it be night." 

Togidres han thise three her trouthes 

plight, 
To live and dyen ech of hem for other, 375 
As though he were his owene yboren^ 

brother. 
And up they sterte al dronken, in this rage. 
And forth they goon towardes that village, 
Of which the taverner had spoke biforn, 
And many a grisly 00th than han they 

sworn, 380 

And Cristes blessed body they to-rente — 
" Deeth shal be deed, if that they may him 

hente."^ 
Whan they han goon nat fully half a 

myle, 
Right as they wolde han troden over a 

style, 
An old man and a povre with hem mette. 
This olde man ful mekely hem grette, 386 
And seyde thus, "now, lordes, god yow 

see! "8 
The proudest of thise ryotoures three 
Answerde agayn, "what? carl,^ with sory 

grace, ^'^ 
Why artow^^ al forwrapped^^ save thy face? 
Why lyvestow so longe in so greet age? "391 
This olde man gan loke^^ in his visage, 
And seyde thus, "for I ne can nat finde 
A man, though that I walked in- to Inde, 
Neither in citee nor in no village, 395 

That wolde chaunge his youthe for myn 

age; 
And therfore moot^* I han myn age stille. 
As longe time as it is goddes wille. 

' hence. ^ servant. ^ forewarned. ■• honorable. 

^ of one mind. ^ born. ' seize. 

5 protect. 9 churl. i" bad luck to you. 

" art thou. 12 wrapped up. i^ looked. '* must. 



Ne deeth, alias! ne wol nat han my lyf; 
Thus walke I, lyk a restelees caityf , 400 
And on the ground, which is my modres 

gate, 
I knokke with my staf , bothe erly and late, 
And seye, 'leve^^ moder, leet me in! 
Lo, how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and 

skin! 
Alias! whan shul my bones been at reste? 
Moder, with yow wolde I chaunge my 

cheste, 406 

That in my chambre longe tyme hath be, 
Ye! for an heyre clowt^^ to wrappe me!' 
But yet to me she wol nat do that grace, 
For which ful pale and welked^^ is my 

face. 410 

But, sirs, to yow it is no curteisye 
To speken to an old man vileinye, 
But^^ he trespasse in worde, or elles in 

dede. 
In holy writ ye may your-self wel rede, 414 
'Agayns^^ an old man, hoor upon his heed. 
Ye sholde aryse,' wherfor I yeve yow reed,"^^ 
Ne dooth un-to an old man noon harm 

now, 
Namore than ye wolde men dide to yow 
In age, if that ye so longe abyde; 
And god be with yow, wher^^ ye go^^ or 

ryde. 420 

I moot go thider as I have to go." 
"Nay, olde cherl, by god, thou shalt nat 

so," 
Seyde this other hasardour anon, 
"Thou partest nat so lightly, by seint 

lohn! 
Thou spak right now of thilke traitour 

Deeth, 425 

That in this contree alle our frendes sleeth. 
Have heer my trouthe, as thou art his 

aspye,^^ 
Tel wher he is, or thou shalt it abye,^^ 
By god, and by the holy sacrament! 
For soothly thou art oon of his assent,^^ 430 
To sleen us yonge folk, thou false theef!" 
"Now, sirs," quod he, "if that yow be so 

leef26 
To findie Deeth, turne up this croked wey, 
For in that grove I lafte him, by my fey. 
Under a tree, and ther he wol abyde; 435 
Nat for^'^ your boost"® he wol him no-thing 

hyde. 



15 dear. 
19 before. 



16 hair cloth. 
20 advice. 



■^3 spy. 25 rue. 

"'' on account of. 



" withered. i' unless. 

21 whether. 22 walk. 

25 conspiracy. 26 eager. 
23 boasting. 



CHA UCER 



2,3 



See ye that ook? right ther ye shul him 

finde. 
God save yow, that boghte agayn man- 

kinde, 
And yow amende!" — thus seyde this olde 

man. 
And everich of thise ryotoures ran, 440 
Til he cam to that tree, and ther they 

founde 
Of florins fyne of golde ycoyned rounde 
Wei ny an eighte^ busshels, as hem 

thoughte. 
No lenger thanne after Deeth they soughte, 
But ech of hem so glad was of that sighte. 
For that the florins been so faire and 

brighte, 446 

That doun they sette hem by this precious 

hord. 
The worste of hem he spak the firste word. 
"Brethren," quod he, "tak kepe^ what 

I seye; 
My wdt is greet, though that I bourde^ 

and pleye. 450 

This tresor hath fortune un-to us yiven, 
In mirthe and lolitee our lyf to liven. 
And lightly as it comth, so wol we spende., 
Ey! goddes precious dignitee! who wende^ 
To-day, that we sholde han so faire a 

grace? ^ 455 

But mighte this gold be caried fro this 

place 
Hoom to myn hous, or elles un-to youres — 
For wel ye woot that al this gold is oures — 
Than were we in heigh felicitee. 
But trewely, by daye it may nat be; 460 
Men wolde seyn that we were theves 

stronge, 
And for our owene tresor doon us honge.^ 
This tresor moste ycaried be by nighte 
As wysly and as slyly as it mighte. 464 
Wherfore I rede that cut among us alle 
Be drawe, and lat se wher the cut wol falle; 
And he that hath the cut with herte blythe 
Shal renne to the toune, and that ful 

swythe,^ 
And bringe us breed and %vyn ful prively. 
And two of us shul kepen subtilly 470 

This tresor wel; and, if he wol nat tarie, 
Whan it is night, we wol this tresor carie 
By oon assent, wher-as us thinketh'^ best." 
That oon of hem the cut broughte in his 

fest,*^ 



I eight . 

' have us hansecl. 



- note of. 
^ quickly. 



' jest. ' thought, 

it seems best. ^ 6st. 



And bad hem drawe, and loke wher it 

wol falle; 475 

And it fil on the youngest of hem alle; 
And forth toward the toun he wente anon. 
And al-so sone as that he was gon. 
That oon of hem spak thus un-to that 

other: 
"Thou knowest wel thou art my sworne 

brother, 480 

Thy profit wol I telle thee anon. 
Thou woost wel that our felawe is agon; 
And heer is gold, and that ful greet plentee. 
That shal departed been among us three. 
But natheles, if I can shape it so 485 

That it departed were among us two, 
Hadde I nat doon a frendes torn to thee? " 
That other answerde, "I noot^ how that 

may be; 
He woot^*^ how that the gold is with us 

tweye ; 
What shal we doon, what shal we to him 

seye? " 490 

"Shal it be conseil?"^^ seyde the firste 

shrewe,^^ 
"And I shal tellen thee, in wordes fewe, 
What we shal doon, and bringe it wel 

aboute." 
"I graunte," quod that other, "out of 

doute. 
That, by my trouthe, I wol thee nat 

biwreye."^^ 495 

"Now," quod the firste, "thou woost 

wel we be tweye. 
And two of us shul strenger be than oon. 
Look whan that he is set, and right anoon 
Arys, as though thou woldest with him 

pleye; 
And I shal ryve him thurgh the sydes 

tweye 500 

Whyl that thou strogelest with him as in 

game. 
And with thy dagger look thou do the 

same; 
And than shal al this gold departed be. 
My dere freend, bitwixen me and thee; 
Than may we bothe our lustes al fulfille,505 
And pleye at dees right at our owene 

wille." 
And thus acorded^^ been thise shrewes 

tweye 
To sleen the thridde, as ye han herd me 

seye. 



9 know not. 
'- scoundrel. 



•o knows 
" betray. 



" a secret. 
'* agreed. 



24 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



This yongest, which that wente un-to 

the toun, 
Ful ofte in herte he roUeth up and doun 510 
The beautee of thise florins newe and 

brighte. 
"0 lord!" quod he, "if so were that I 

mighte 
Have al this tresor to my-self allone, 
Ther is no man that liveth under the 

trone^ 
Of god, that sholde Hve so mery as I! " 515 
And atte laste the feend, our enemy, 
Putte in his thought that he shold poyson 

beye,^ 
With which he mighte sleen his felawes 

tweye; 
For why ^ the feend fond him in swich 

lyvinge, 
That he had leve^ him to sorwe bringe, 520 
For this was outrely^ his ful entente 
To sleen hem bothe, and never to repente. 
And forth he gooth, no lenger wolde he 

tarie, 
Into the toun, un-to a pothecarie, 
And preyed him, that he him wolde 

selle _ _ 525. 

Som poyson, that he mighte his rattes 

quelle;^ 
And eek ther was a polcat in his hawe,^ 
That, as he seyde, his capouns hadde 

yslawe, 
And fayn he wolde wreke^ him, if he 

mighte. 
On vermin, that destroyed him by nighte. 
The pothecarie answerde, "and thou 

shalt have 531 

A thing that, al-so god my soule save. 
In al this world ther nis no creature. 
That ete or dronke hath of this confiture^ 
Noght but the mountance^" of a corn of 

whete, _ 535 

That he ne shal his lyf anon forlete;^^ 
Ye, sterve^^ he shal, and that in lasse whyle 
Than thou wolt goon a paas^^ nat but a 

myle; 
This poyson is so strong and violent." 
This cursed man hath in his hond 

yhent^^ 540 

This poyson in a box, and sith he ran 
In-to the nexte strete, un-to a man, 
And borwed of him large hotels three; 
And in the two his poyson poured he; 

1 throne. ^ buy. ' because. ■• permission. 5 entirely. 
« kill. ^ yard. ' avenge. ' mixture. '" amount. 

" lose. 12 die. i3 at a foot pace. '^ seized. 



The thridde he kepte clene for his drinke. 
For all the night he shoop him^^ for to 

swinke^^ 546 

In caryinge of the gold out of that place. 
And whan this ryotour, with sory grace, 
Had filled with wyn his grete hotels three, 
To his felawes agayn repaireth he. 550 

What nedeth it to sermone^^ of it more? 
For right as they had cast his deeth bifore. 
Right so they han him slayn, and that 

anon. 
And whan that this was doon, thus spak 

that oon, 
"Now lat us sitte and drinke, and make us 

merie, _ 555 

And afterward we wol his body berie." 
And with that word it happed him, par 

cas,^^ 
To take the hotel ther the poyson was, 
And drank, and yaf his felawe drinke 

also. 
For which anon they storven^^ bothe two. 
But, certes, I suppose that Avicen 561 
Wroot never in no canon, ~° ne in no fen,^° 
Mo^^ wonder"^ signes of empoisoning 
Than haddd thise wrecches two, er hir 

ending. 
Thus ended been thise homicydes two, 565 
And eek the false empoysoner also. 

O cursed sinne, ful of cursednesse! 
O tray tours homicyde, o wikkednesse! 
O glotonye, luxurie, and hasardrye! 
Thou blasphemour of Crist with vileinye 
And othes grete, of usage^^ and of pryde 1571 
Alias ! mankynde, how may it bityde. 
That to thy creatour which that thee 

wroghte. 
And with his precious herte-blood thee 

boghte, 
Thou art so fals and so unkinde, alias! 575 
Now, goode men, god forge ve yow your 

trespas. 
And ware yow^^ fro the sinne of avaryce. 
Myn holy pardoun may yow alle waryce,^'^ 
So that ye offre nobles or sterlinges. 
Or elles silver broches, spones, ringes. 580 
Boweth your heed under this holy buUe! 
Cometh up, ye wyves, ofifreth of your 

wolle!-*' 
Your name I entre heer in my rolle anon; 
In-to the blisse of hevene shul ye gon ; 



'5 planned. 
13 died. 
23 habit. 



■8 labor. 
-° See notes. 
2* keep you. 



speak. 
2' more. 
25 cure. 



18 by chance. 
22 wonderful. 
26 wool. 



CHAUCER 



25 



I yow assoile, by myn heigh power, 585 
Yow that wol ofifre, as clene and eek as 

cleer 
As ye were born; and, lo, sirs, thus I 

preche. 
And lesu Crist, that is our soules leche, 
So graunte yow his pardon to receyve; 
For that is best; I wol yow nat deceyve.590 

But sirs, o word forgat I in my tale; 
I have reliks and pardon in my male,^ 
As faire as any man in Engelond, 
Whiche were me yeven by the popes 

bond. 
If any of yow wol, of devocioun, 595 

Offren, and han myn absolucioun, 
Cometh forth anon, and kneleth heer 

adoun, 
And mekely recey veth my pardoun : 
Or elles, taketh pardon as ye wende, 
Al newe and fresh, at every tounes ende, 
So that ye offren alwey newe and newe 601 
Nobles and pens, which that be gode and 

trewe. 
It is an honour to everich that is heer, 
That ye mowe have a suffisant pardoneer 
Tassoille" yow, in contree as ye ryde, 605 
For a ventures which that may bityde. 
Pera venture ther may falle oon or two 
Doun of his hors, and breke his nekke 

atwo. 
Look which a seuretee is it to yow alle 
That I am in your f elaweship yf alle, 61 o 
That may assoille yow, both more' and 

lasse,^ 
Whan that the soule shal fro the body 

passe. 
I rede^ that our host hear shal biginne. 
For he is most envoluped in sinne. 614 

Com forth, sir hoste, and off re first anon, 
And thou shalt kisse the reliks everichon,^ 
Ye, for a grote! unbokel anon thy purs. 



BALADE DE BON CONSEYL 

Fie fro the prees,'^ and dwelle with soth- 

f astnesse f 
Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal; 
For hord hath hate, and clymbing tikel- 

nesse,^ 
Frees hath envye, and wele^'' blent^^ overal; 
Savour^"-^ no more than thee bihove shal ; 5 

'wallet. - to absolve. ' hiRh. 'low. 

' advise. ^ each one. " the crowd. *^ truth, 

'uncertainty, '"wealth, "blinds. '- have relish for. 



Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst 

rede;^"^ 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse, 
In trust .of hir that turneth as a bal ; 
Gret reste^"* stant^^ in litel besinesse, 10 
And eek be war to sporne^^ ageyn an al; 
Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with 

the wal. 
Daunte^^ thyself, that daimtest otheres 

dede; 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse,i5 
The wrastling for this world axeth^^ a fal. 
Her nis non hom, her nis but wildernesse; 
Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out 

of thy stal! 
Know thy countree; lok up, thank God of 

al; 
Hold the hye-way, and lat thy gost^^ thee 

lede! 20 

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

Envoy 

Therefore, thou Vache, leve"'^ thyn old 

wrecchednesse ; 
Unto the world leve now to be thral ; 
Crye Him mercy that of His hy goodnesse 
Made thee of noght, and in especial 25 

Draw unto Him, and pray in general 
For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich 

mede;"^ 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

THE COMPLAINT OF CHAUCER TO 
HIS EMPTY PURSE 

To you, my purse, and to non other wight'^^ 
Compleyne I, for ye be my lady dere! 
I am so sory, now that ye be light ; 
For certes, but'-^ ye make me he\y chere,-"^ 
Me were as leef be leyd up-on my bere ; 5 
For whiche un-to your mercy thus I crye: 
Beth-^ hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye! 

Now voucheth sauf this day, or'-^ hit be 

night. 
That I of you the blisful soun may here, 
Or see your colour lyk the sonne bright, 10 



13 advise. 
" subdue. 
=' reward. 
=5 be. 



" peace. 
'8 asks. 
-' person. 



'■' resides, 
"spirit. 
-^ unless. 



16 kick. 
^ cease. 
-' appearance. 
=6 before. 



26 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



That of yelownesse hadde never pare. 
Ye be my lyf, ye be myn hertes stere/ 
Quene of comfort and of good companye: 
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye! 

Now purs, that be to me my lyves Hght, 15 
And saveour, as doun^ in this worlde here, 
Out of this toune help me through your 

might, 
Sin that ye wole nat been my tresorere; 
For I am shave as nye^ as any frere.^ 
But yit I pray un-to your curtesye : 20 

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye! 

Lenvoy de Chaucer 

conquerour of Brutes Albioun! 
Which that by lyne and free eleccioun 
Ben^ verray king, this song to you I sende; 
And ye, that mo wen ^ al myn harm 

amende, 25 

Have mynde up-on my supplicacioun! 

ANONYMOUS 
PIERS THE PLOWMAN 

From the Prologue 

In a somer sesun * whon softe was the 
Sonne, 

1 schop'' me in-to a schroud^ ' a scheep^ 

as I were; 
In habite of an hermite ' unholy of werkes, 
Wende^^ I wyde in this world ' wondres to 

here. 
Bote on a May mornynge ' on Malverne 

hulles^i 5 

Mebi-fel^^ a ferly^^'of fairy,^"* me thoughte. 

I was wery, forwandred,^^ " and went me 

to reste 
Under a brod banke • bi a bourne^^ syde, 
And as I lay and leonede^^ ' and lokede on 

the watres, 
I slumberde in a slepyng " hit sownede^^ so 

murie.-^^ 10 

Thenne gon^" I meeten^^ ■ a mervelous 

swevene,-^ 
That I was in a wildernesse ' wuste^^ I 

never where; 
And as I beheold into the est " an heigh""^ 

to the Sonne, 

1 guide. 2 down. ^ close. ■' friar. ^ art. 

" have power to. 'clothed. ^ garment. 

9 shepherd. i° went. "Tiills. 

1- happened. '■'' wonder. ''• enchantment. 

15 tired with wandering. "> brook. " leaned. 

18 sounded. " merry. -" did. 

21 dream. 22 dream. 

23 knew. -^ on high. 



I sauh^''' a tour on a toft^^ " trielich^'' 

ymaked;^® 
A deop dale bineothe " a dongeon ther-inne, 
With deop dich and derk ' and dredful 

of siht.^^ 16 

A feir feld ful of folk • fond I ther bitwene, 
Of alle maner of men ' the mene^° and the 

riche, 
Worchinge^^ and wandringe ' as the world 

asketh.^^ 
Summe putten hem^^ to the plow " and 

pleiden^^ ful selde;^^ 20 

In settyng^'' and in sowyng ' swonken^'^ 

ful harde, 
And wonnen that theos^^ wasturs^^ ' in 

glotonye distruen.^*' 
And summe putten hem to pruide^^ ' ap- 

parayld*^ hem ther-after, 
In continaunce^^ of clothinge ' comen dis- 

gised. 
To preyere^^ and to penaunce ' putten 

hem monye,^'' 25 

For love of ur"*^ lorde * lyveden*'^ ful streite. 
In hope for to have " hevenriche^^ blisse; 
As ancres''^ and hermytes ' that holdeth 

hem'^^ in heore^^ celles, 
Coveyte not in cuntre^^ ' to cairen*"^ aboute, 
For non likerous^^ lyflode^"^ ' heore licam''^ 

to plese. 30 

And summe chosen chaffare^^ ' to cheeven''^ 

the bettre. 
As hit semeth to owre siht ' that suche 

men thryveth; 
And summe murthes^^ to maken ' as mun- 

strals cunne,^'' 
And get gold with here gle^^ ' giltles I trowe. 
Bote japers^^ and jangelers,^^ " ludas chil- 
dren, ^ 35 
Founden^^ hem fantasyes^^ " and fooles 

hem maaden, 
And habbeth wit at heor wille^^ ' to 

worchen^'' gif hem luste; 
That*"'^ Poul precheth of hem ' I dar not 

preoven^^ heere; 

-5 saw. 26 cleared space. ^7 choicely. 

28 made. 29 sight. 3o poor. 

31 working. ^2 requires. ^s gave themselves. 

^* played. '^ seldom. ^e planting. 

'' labored, ^s these. ^^ wasters. 

™ destroy, ''i pride. ^2 clothed. 

^3 outward appearance. ^'' prayer. 

*^ many. ^^ our. ■" lived. 

*^ happiness of the kingdom of heaven. 

■" nuns. '■'^ keep themselves. 5' their. 

53 wander, ^i luxurious. 

5' trade. ^^ prosper. 

^0 know how. 

"3 buffoons. ^^ feigned. 

^ at command. 

M what. 



country, 
body. 



65 diet 

5' amusements 

^' glee. *2 fools. 

85 tricks. 
6' work if it pleased them 
6' prove, explain. 



PIERS THE PLOWMAN 



27 



Qui loquitur turpiloquium ' is Luciferes 

hyne. 
Bidders^ and beggers ' faste aboute eoden,^ 
Til heor bagges and heor belies " weren 

bretful ycrammed;^ 41 

Feyneden hem* for heore foode " foughten 

atte^ ale; 
In glotonye, God wot, ' gon heo^ to 

bedde, 
And ryseth up with ribaudye^ ' this rober- 

des^ knaves; 
Sleep and sleuthe ' suweth^ hem evere. 45 
Pilgrimes and palmers • plihten^*^ hem 

togederes 
For to seche^^ Seint Jame ' and seintes at 

Roome ; 
Wenten forth in heore wey ' with mony 

wyse tales, 
And hadden leve to lyen " al heore lyf af tir. 



I fond there freres • all the foure ordres, 55 
Prechinge the peple " for profyt of heore 

wombes,^^ 
Glosynge^^ the Gospel * as hem^* good 

liketh,!* 
For covetyse^^ of copes ' construeth^^ hit 

ille; 
For monye^'^ of this maistres ' mowen^^ 

clothen hem at lyking,^^ 
For moneye^° and heore marchaundie^^ • 

meeten oft togedere. 60 



Ther prechede a pardoner • as^^ he a 

prest were, 65 

And brought forthe a buUe ' with bis- 

schopes seles. 
And seide that himself mighte • asoylen-^ 

hem alle 
Of falsnesse and fastinge * and of vowes 

y-broken. 
The lewede^* men leved-'^ him wel ' and 

lyked his wordes, 
And comen up knelynge ' and cusseden""^ 

his buUe; 70 

He bonchede-'^ hem with his brevet'-^ ' and 

blered heore eiyen,-^ 

' begRars. - went. ' crammed. ■■ shammed. 

' at the. ^ they. ' ribaldry. 

8 these robber. ^ follow. '"plighted. 

"seek. '-bellies. "interpreting. 

" as it pleased them. '* covetousness. " construe. 

" many. " may. '' as they please. 

2" money. -'merchandise. -'- as if. -' shrive. 

" ignorant. '-' believed. 2« kissed. 

s' banged. 2' letter of indulgence. 29 eyes. 



And rauhte^*^ with his ragemon"^ " ringes 

and broches. 
Thus ye giveth oure''^" gold " glotonye to 

helpen, 
And leveth hit to losels^^ ' that lecherie 

haunten.'^* 
Weore the bisschop y-blessed ' and Worth 

bothe his eres,^'"^ 75 

His seel shulde not be sent ' to deceyve 

the peple. 
Ac^'^ hit is not bi^^ the bisschop ' that 

the boye precheth; 
Bote^^ the parisch prest and he ' parten 

the selver 
That the poraille^^ of the parisch ' schold 

have yif thei nere.^^ 



ANONYMOUS 
"NOAH'S FLOOD 

THE WATERLEADERS AND DRAWERS 
OF DEE 

First God, sitting in some high place, or in 
clouds, if it can be done, speaks to Noah, 
standing with all his family outside the 
ark. 

God. I, God, that all the world have 

wrought, 
Heaven and earth, and all of nought, 
I see my people in deed and thought 

Are foully set in sin. 
My spirit shall not remain in any man s 
That through fleshly liking is my fone,'^° 
But till six score years be gone. 

To look if they will blynne.*^ 

Man that I made I will destroy, 

Beast, man, and fowl that fly, 10 

For on earth they do me annoy, 

The folk that are thereon ; 
It harms me so hurtfully. 
The malice now that does multiply. 
That sore it grieveth me inwardly 15 

That ever I made man. 

Therefore, Noah, my servant free, 
That righteous man art, as I see, 
A ship soon thou shalt make thee 

Of trees dry and light ; 20 



2" reached, got. 
■■'■■' rascals. 
3'' all the fault of. 
^' poor [jcople. 
<" foe. 



3' bull. 3- your. 

3< practise. " ears. 

3" but. 
3' if it were not for them. 

<' cease. 



28 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Little chambers therein do thou make, 
And binding pitch also do thou take : 
Within and without do thou not slake^ 
To annoint it with all thy might. 

Three hundred cubits it shall be long, 25 
And fifty of breadth, to make it strong, 
Of height fifty, the measure do thou 
fonge:^ 

Thus measure it about. 
One window work by thy wit, 
One cubit of length and breadth make it; 30 
'Upon the side a door shall sit, 

For to come in and out. 

Eating places do thou make also, 

Three roofed chambers, one or two, 

For with water I think to flow^ 35 

Man that I did make ; 
^ Destroyed all the world shall be," 
Save thou, thy wife, thy sons three, 
And all their wives also with thee, 

Shall saved be for their sake. 40 

Noah. Ah, Lord, I thank thee loud and 

still. 
That to me art in such will. 
And sparest me and my house to spill, ^ 

As now I soothly find; 
Thy bidding, Lord, I shall fulfil, 45 

And never more thee grieve nor grill, ^ 
That such grace hast sent me till. 

Among all mankind. 

Have done, you men and women all ! 
Help, for aught that may befall, 50 

To make this ship, chamber and hall, 

As God hath bidden us do. 
Shem. Father, I am already bowne :^ 
An axe I have, by my crown. 
As sharp as any in all this town, 55 

For to go thereto. 

Ham. I have a hatchet wonder keen 
To bite well, as may be seen; 
A better ground, as I ween. 

Is not in all this town. 60 

Japhet. And I can well make a pin, 
And with this hammer knock it in ; 
Go and work without more din, 

And I am ready bowne. 



' be not slack. 
* destroy. 



" take. 
^ vex. 



3 flood. 
^ prepared. 



Noah's Wife. And we shall bring timber 
too, 65 

For we may nothing else do: 
Women be weak to undergo 

Any great travail. 
Shem's Wife. Here is a good hackstock,'^ 
On this you may hew and knock ; 70 

Shall none be idle in this flock, 

Nor now may no man fail. 

Ham's Wife. And I will go to gather 

slich^ 
The ship for to clean and pitch: 
Annointed it must be every stitch,^ 75 

Board, tree and pin. 
Japhet's Wife. And I will gather chips 

here 
To make a fire for you in fere,^" 
And for to dight^^ your dinner 

Against you come in. 80 

Then they make signs as though they were 
working with various implements. 

Noah. Now in the name of God I will 

begin 
To make the ship that we shall go in, 
That we be ready for to swim 

At the coming of the flood : 
These boards I join here together 85 

To keep us safe from the weather. 
That we may row both hither and thither. 

And safe be from this flood. 



Of this tree will I make the mast, 
Tied with cables that will last. 
With a sailyard for each blast, 

And each thing in their kind; 
With topcastle and bowsprit, 
With cords and ropes I have all meet 
To sail forth at the next weete :^^ 

This ship is at an end. 



90 



95 



Then Noah and all his family again make 
signs of working with various imple- 
ments. 

Wife, in this castle we shall be kept; 
My children and thou I would in leapt. 
Noah's Wife. In faith, Noah, I had as 
lief thou slept. 
For all thy frankish fare, 100 



' chopping-block. 
"> all together. 



' pitch. 
'1 prepare. 



' stick. 
12 wet weather. 



NOAH'S FLOOD 



29 



I will not do after thy rede.^ 
Noah. Good wife, do now as I thee bid. 
Noah's Wife. By Christ! not ere I see 
more need, 
Though thou stand all the day and stare. 

Noah. Lord, that women be crabbed aye, 
And never are meek, that dare I say; 106 
This is well seen by me today 

In witness of you each one. 
Good wife, let be all this bere' 
That thou makest in this place here, no 
For all they ween thou art master — 

And so thou art, by St. John ! 

God. Noah, take thou thy company, 

And in the ship hie that you be, 

For none so righteous man to me 115 

Is now on earth living. 
Of clean beasts do thou with thee take 
Seven and seven, ere thou slake. 
He and she, make to make,^ 

Quickly in do thou bring. 1 20 



Of beasts unclean, two and two, 
Male and female, without mo;'* 
Of clean fowls seven also, 

The he and she together; 
Of fowls unclean, two and no more, 
As I of beasts said before, 
That shall be saved through my lore, 

Against I send the weather. 



125 



130 



Of all meats that must be eaten 
Into the ship look there be getten. 
For that no way may be forgetten, 

And do all this bydene,^ 
To sustain man and beast therein. 
Aye till this water cease and blynne. 
This world is filled full of sin, 

And that is now well seen. 



Seven days be yet coming, 

You shall have space them in to bring ; 

After that is my liking 

Mankind for to annoy : 140 

Forty days and forty nights 
Rain shall fall for their unrights, 
z\nd what I have made through my 
mights. 

Now think I to destroy. 



' counsel. 
* more. 



' mate. 
' quickly. 



Noah. Lord, at your bidding I am bayne;^ 
Since none other your grace will gain, 146 
It will I fulfil fain. 

For gracious I thee find. 
A hundred winters and twenty 
This ship making tarried have I, 150 

If through amendment any mercy 

Would fall unto mankind. 

Have done, you men and women all ! 

Hie you, lest this water fall. 

That each beast were in his stall, 1 5 5 

And into the ship brought! 
Of clean beasts seven shall be. 
Of unclean two, this God bade me. 
This flood is nigh, well may we see; 

Therefore tarry you not. 160 

Then Noah shall enter the ark, and his 
family shall exhibit and name all the 
animals depicted on sheets of parch- 
ment, and after each one has spoken his 
part, he shall go into the ark, except 
Noah's wife. The animals depicted 
ought to correspond to the descriptions; 
and thus let the first son begin. 

Shem. Sir, here are lions, leopards in. 
Horses, mares, oxen, and swine, 
Goats, calves, sheep, and kine, 

Here sitting thou mayst see. 
Ham. Camels, asses, men may find, 165 
Buck, doe, hart, and hind. 
And beasts of all manner of kind 

Here be, as thinks me. 

Japhet. Take here cats, and dogs too. 
Otter, fox, fulmart^ also, 170 

Hares hopping gaily can go, 

Have cowle here for to eat. 
Noah's Wife. And here are bears, wolves 

set. 
Apes, owls, marmoset. 
Weasels, squirrels, and ferret; 175 

Here they eat their meat. 

Shem's Wife. Yet more beasts are in this 

house : 
Here cats make it full crowse,* 
Here a rat, here a mouse. 

They stand nigh together. 180 

^ ready. ' skunk. s jolly. 



30 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Ham's Wife. And here are fowls, less and 

more: 
Herons, cranes, and bittour,^ 
Swans, peacocks; and them before 
Meat for this weather. 

Japhet's Wife. Here are cocks, kites, 
crows, 185 

Rooks, ravens, many rows; 
Ducks, curlews: whoever knows 

Each one in his kind? 
And here are doves, ducks, drakes, 
Redshanks, running through the lakes; 190 
And each fowl that language makes 

In this ship men may find. 

Noah. Wife, come in! why standest thou 

here? 
Thou art ever froward, that dare I swear. 
Come in, on God's half!" time it were, 195 

For fear lest that we drown. 
Noah's Wife. Yea, sir, set up your sail. 
And row forth with evil hail! 
For without any fail 

I will not out of this town. 200 

Unless I have my gossips every one 
One foot further I will not gone;^ 
They shall not drown, by St. John! 

If I may save their life! 
They loved me full well, by Christ! 205 
Unless thou wilt let them in thy chest, 
Row forth, Noah, whither thou list, 

And get thee a new wife. 

Noah. Shem, son, lo! thy mother is 

wraw:^ 
Forsooth, such another I do not know! 210 
Shem. Father, I shall fetch her in, I 
trow. 

Without any fail. 
Mother, my father after thee sent. 
And bids thee into yonder ship wend. 
Look up and see the wind, 215 

For we be ready to sail. 

Noah's Wife. Son, go again to him and 

say 
I will not come therein today. 
Noah. Come in, wife, in twenty devils' 



way 



Or else stand there without. 2: 

1 bittern. ^ for God's sake. 

3 go— an infinitive. * angry. 



Ham. Shall we all fetch her in? 

Noah. Yea, sons, in Christ's blessing 

and mine! 
I would you hied you betime, 
For of this flood I am in doubt.^ 

The Good Gossips. {They sing.] 

The flood comes in full fleeting fast, 225 

On every side it spreadeth full far; 

For fear of drowning I am aghast, 

Good gossip, let us draw near. 

And let us drink ere we depart. 

For oftentimes we have done so; 230 

For at a draught thou drink'st a quart, 

And so will I do, ere I go. 

Japhet. Mother, we pray you altogether, 
For we are here, your own children. 
Come into the ship for fear of the weather, 

For his love that you bought. 236 

Noah's Wife. That will I not for all your 

call. 
Unless I have my gossips all. 
Shem. In faith, mother, yet you shall, 

Whether you will or not! 240 

[Then she will go.] 

Noah. Welcome, wife, into this boat! 
Noah's Wife. And have thou that for 
thy mote!^ 

[She deals Noah a blow.] 
Noah. Aha, marry, this is hot! 

It is good to be still. 
Ah, children, methinks my boat removes! 
Our tarrying here hugely me grieves; 246 
Over the land the water spreads — 

God do as he will! 

Ah, great God that art so good. 

He that works not thy will is wood^. 250 

Now all this world is in a flood, 

As I see well in sight; 
This window I will shut anon, 
And into my chamber will I gone, 
Till this water, so great one, 255 

Be slaked through thy might. 

Then let Noah shut the window of the ark, 
and let them, remaining within for a 
short time, sing the psalm "Save me, 
O God;'" then let Noah open the win- 
dow and look around. 



5 fear. 



^ chatter. 



'mad. 



NOAH'S FLOOD 



31 



Now forty days are fully gone. 

Send a raven I will anon, 

To see if anywhere, earth, tree, or stone. 

Be dry in any place; 260 

And if this fowl come not again, 
It is a sign, sooth to sayne,^ 
That dry it is on hill or plain, 

And God hath done some grace. 

Then let Mm send out the raven, and taking 
a dove in his hands, let him speak. 

Ah, Lord, wherever this raven be, 265 

Somewhere is dry, well I see. 
But yet a dove, by my loyalty. 

After I will send. 
Thou wilt turn again to me, 

For of all fowls that may fly, 270 

Thou art most meek and hend.^ 

Then he shall put forth the dove, and there 
shall be on the ship another dove bearing 
an olive branch in her mouth, which 
someone shall let down from the mast 
by a cord into Noah's hand, and 
' afterwards let Noah speak. 

Ah, Lord, blessed be thou aye. 
That me hast comforted thus today! 
By this sight I may well say 

This flood begins to cease: 275 

My sweet dove to me brought has 
A branch of olive from some place; 
This betokeneth God has done us some 
grace. 

And is a sign of peace. 

Ah, Lord, honored may thou be! 280 

All earth dries now, I see. 

But yet till thou commandest me, 

Hence will I not hie. 
All this water is away; 
Therefore as soon as I may, 285 

Sacrifice I shall do in fay^ 

To thee devoutly. 

God. Noah, take thy wife anon, 
And thy children every one; 
Out of the ship thou shalt gone 290 

And they all with thee; 

■say. 2 gentle. 'faith. 



Beasts and all that can fly 
Out anon they shall hie. 
On earth to grow and multiply; 
I will that it so be. 



295 



Noah. Lord, I thank thee, through thy 

might. 
Thy bidding shall be done in hight,'' 
And as fast as I may dight 

I will do thee honor. 
And to thee offer sacrifice. 300 

Therefore comes in all wise. 
For of these beasts that be his 

Offer I will this store. 

Then coming out of the ark with all his 
family Noah shall take his animals 
and fowls and make an ojfering, and 
sacrifice. 

Lord God in majesty. 

That such grace hast granted me 305 

Where all was lost, safe to be. 

Therefore now I am bowne. 
My wife, my children, my company. 
With sacrifice to honor thee. 
With beasts, fowls, as thou mayst see, 310 

Which I offer here right soon. 

God. Noah, to me thou art full able,^ 

And thy sacrifice acceptable, 

For I have found thee true and stable; 

On thee must I now mind.^ 315 

Curse earth will I no more 
For man's sin that grieves me sore. 
For of youth man full yore 

Has been inclined to sin. 



You shall now grow and multiply. 
And earth again you shall edify; 
Each beast and fowl that may fly 

Shall be afraid of you; 
And fish in sea that may flytte^ 
Shall sustain you, I you behite;^ 
To eat of them do not let,'^ 

That clean be you may know. 



320 



325 



Whereas you have eaten before 
Grass and roots since you were born, 
Of clean beasts, less and more, 330 

I give you leave to eat; 



* haste. 
' swim. 



^ pleasinK. 
s promise. 



6 think. 
' hesitate. 



32 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



Save blood and flesh both in fere^ 
Of wrong dead carrion that is here: 
Eat not of that in no manner, 

For that aye shall you let.- 335 

Manslaughter also you shall flee, 
For that is not pleasant to me. 
That sheds blood, he or she, 

Any\vhere amongst mankind, 
That blood foully shed shall be, 340 

x^nd vengeance have that men shall see. 
Therefore beware now all ye, 

You fall not in that sin. 

A foreword^ now with thee I make, 

And all thy seed for thy sake, 345 

From such vengeance for to slake. 

For now I have my will ; 
Here I promise thee a hest:^ 
That man, woman, fowl nor beast 
With water, while the world shall last, 350 

I will no more spill. ^ 

My bow between you and me 

In the firmament shall be, 

For very token that you may see 

That such vengeance shall cease; 355 
That man nor woman shall never more 
Be wasted by water, as before; 
But for sin, that grieveth me sore, 

Therefore this vengeance was. 

Where clouds in the welkin been^ 360 

That same bow shall be seen, 
In token that my wrath and teen^ 

Shall never thus wreaked be; 
The string is turned toward you. 
And toward me is bent the bow, 365 

That such weather shall never show, 

And this promise I thee. 

My blessing now I give thee here. 

To thee, Noah, my servant dear. 

For vengeance shall no more appear. 370 

And now, farewell, my dariing dear. 



THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH 
POPULAR BALLADS 

EDWARD 

I. "Why dois your brand sae drap wi 
bluid, 

Edward, Edward. 



I together. 
•• assurance. 



' leave alone. 

' destroy. ' be. 



' covenant. 
^ anger. 



Why dois your brand sae drap wi 
bluid. 
And why sae sad gang yee O? " 
"01 hae killed my hauke sae guid, 
Mither, mither, 
1 hae killed my hauke sae guid. 
And I had nae mair bot^ hee O. " 

2. "Your haukis bluid was nexdr sae reid, 

Edward, Edward, 
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, 

My deir son I teU thee 0." 
"O I hae kiUed my reid-roan steid, 

Mither, mither, 
I hae killed my reid-roan steid. 
That erst was sae fair and frie O." 

3. "Your steid was auld, and ye hae got 

mair, 

Edward, Edward, 
Your steid was auld, and ye hae got 
mair, 
Sum other dule^ ye drie^° O." 
"01 hae killed my fadir deir, 

Mither, mither, 
I hae killed my fadir deir, 
Alas, and wae is mee ! " 

4. "And whatten penance wul ye drie for 

that, 

Edward, Edward, 
And whatten penance wfll ye drie for 
that? 
My deir son, now tell me O." 
" He set my feit in yonder boat, 

Mither, mither. 
He set my feit in yonder boat. 
And He fare o\dr the sea O." 

5. "And what wul ye doe wi your towirs 

and your ha, 

Edward, Edward? 
And what wul ye doe wi your towirs 
and your ha. 
That were sae fair to see 0? " 
"He let thame stand tul they doun fa, 

Mither, mither. 
He let thame stand tul they down fa, 
For here ne\'ir mair maun^^ I bee O." 

6. "And what wul ye leive to your bairns 

and your wife, 

Edward, Edward? 

3 but. 9 grief. i° suffer. " must. 



THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 



33 



And what wul ye leive to your bairns 
and your wife, 
Whan ye gang ovir the sea O? " 
"The warldis room, late them beg 
thrae^ Hfe, 

Mither, mither, 
The warldis room, late them beg thrae 
Hfe, 
For thame nevir mair wul I see O." 

7. "And what wul ye leive to your ain 
mither deir, 

Edward, Edward? 
And what wul ye leive to your ain 
mither deir? 
My deir son, now tell me O." 
"The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, 

Mither, mither, 
The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir. 
Sic counseils ye gave to me O." 



KEMP OWYNE 

1. Her mother died when she was young. 

Which gave her cause to make great 
moan; 
Her father married the warst woman 
That ever lived in Christendom. 

2. She served her with foot and hand, 

In every thing that she could dee,^ 
Till once, in an unlucky time. 

She threw her in ower Craigy's sea. 

3. Says, "Lie you there, dove Isabel, 

And all my sorrows lie with thee; 
Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea. 

And borrow^ you with kisses three 
Let all the warld do what they will. 

Oh borrowed shall you never be!" 

4. Her breath grew Strang, her hair grew 

lang, _ 
And twisted thrice about the tree. 
And all the people, far and near. 

Thought that a savage beast was 
she. 

5. These news did come to Kemp Owyne, 

Where he lived, far beyond the sea; 
He hasted him to Craigy's sea. 
And on the savage beast lookd he. 



1 through. 



»do. 



6. Her breath was Strang, her hair was 

lang, _ 
And twisted was about the tree. 
And with a swing she came about: 
"Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss 
with me. 

7. " Here is a royal belt," she cried, 

" That I have found in the green sea; 
And while your body it is on. 

Drawn shall your blood never be; 
But if you touch me, tail or fin, 

I vow my belt your death shall be." 

8. He stepped in, gave her a kiss. 

The royal belt he brought him wi; 

Her breath was Strang, her hair was 

lang, _ 

And twisted twice about the tree. 

And with a swing she came about: 

"Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss 

with me. 

9. "Here is a royal ring," she said, 

"That I have found in the green sea ; 
And while your finger it is on. 

Drawn shall your blood never be; 
But if you touch me, tail or fin, 

I swear my ring your death shall be." 

ID. He stepped in, gave her a kiss. 

The royal ring he brought him wi; 
Her breath was Strang, her hair was 
lang,_ 
And twisted ance about the tree. 
And with a swing she came about: 
"Come to Craigy's sea, and kiss 
with me. 

1 1. "Here is a royal brand," she said, 

"That I have found in the green sea ; 
And while your body it is on, 

Drawn shall your blood never be; 
But if you touch me, tail or fin, 

I swear my brand your death shall 
be." 

12. He stepped in, gave her a kiss, 

The royal brand he brought him wi ; 
Her breath was sweet, her hair grew 
short, 

And twisted nane about the tree, 
And smilingly she came about, 

As fair a woman as fair could be. 



34 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



SIR PATRICK SPENS 

The king sits in Dumferling toune, 
Drinking the blude-reid wine: 

"O whar will I get guid sailor, 
To sail this schip of mine? " 

Up and spak an eldern knicht, 
Sat at the kings richt kne: 

"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, 
That sails upon the se." 

The king has written a braid letter, 

And signd it wi his hand. 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, 

Was walking on the sand. 

The first line that Sir Patrick red, 

A loud lauch lauched he; 
The next line that Sir Patrick red. 

The teir blinded his ee. 

"O wha is this has don this deid. 

This ill deid don to me, 
To send me out this time o' the yeir. 

To sail upon the se! 

" Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men 
all 

Our guid schip sails the morne:" 
"O say na sae, my master deir. 

For I feir a deadlie storme. 

"Late, late yestreen I saw the new 
moone, 

Wi the auld moone in hir arme, ■ 
And I feir, I feir, my deir master. 

That we will cum to harme." 

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith 
To weet their cork-heild schoone; 

Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, 
Thair hats they swam aboone.^ 

O lang, lang may their ladies sit, 
Wi thair fans into their hand, 

Or eir^ they se Sir Patrick Spence 
Cum sailing to the land. 



10. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, 
Wi thair gold kerns in their hair. 
Waiting for thair ain deir lords. 
For they'll se thame na mair. 

1 above. - before. 



7- 



1 1 . Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, 
It's fiftie fadom deip. 
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, 
Wi the Scots lords at his feit. 



THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL 

1. There lived a wife at Usher's Well, 

And a wealthy wife was she; 
She had three stout and stalwart sons, 
And sent them oer the sea. 

2. They hadna been a week from her, 

A week but barely ane, 
When word came to the carline^ wife 
That her three sons were gane. 

3. They hadna been a week from her, 

A week but barely three, 
When word came to the carlin wife 
That her sons she'd never see. 

4. "I wish the wind may never cease, 

Nor fashes^ in the flood, 
Till my three sons come hame to me. 
In earthly flesh and blood." 

5. It fell about the Martinmass, 

When nights are lang and mirk,^ 
The carlin wife's three sons came hamC; 
And their hats were o the birk.^ 

6. It neither grew in syke'^ nor ditch. 

Nor yet in ony sheugh,^ 
But at the gates o Paradise, 
That birk grew fair eneugh. 

7. "Blow up the fire, my maidens, 

Bring water from the well; 
For a' my house shall feast this night, 
Since my three sons are well." 

8. And she has made to them a bed. 

She's made it large and wide, 
And she's taen her mantle her about 
Sat down at the bed-side. 

9. Up then crew the red, red cock. 

And up and crew the gray; 

The eldest to the youngest said, 

" 'Tis time we were away." 

3 peasant. * storms. ' dark. ^ birch. " trench. ^ furrow. 



THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 



35 



10. The cock he hadna craw'd but once, 

And clappd his wings at a', 
When the youngest to the eldest said, 
" Brother, we must awa. 

11. "The cock doth craw, the day doth 

daw. 
The channerin^ worm doth chide; 
Gin^ we be mist out o our place, 
A sair pain we maun bide. 

12. "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! 

Fareweel to barn and byre!^ 
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass 
That kindles my mother's fire!" 



ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GIS- 
BORNE 

1. When shawes"* beene sheene,'^ and 

shradds^ full fayre. 
And leeves both large and longe, 
Itt is merry, walking in the fayre 

fforrest, 
To heare the small birds songe. 

2. The woodweele'' sang, and wold not 

cease. 
Amongst the leaves a lyne:^ 
And it is by two wight® yeomen. 
By deare God, that I meane. 

3. "Me thought they did mee beate 

and binde. 
And tooke my bowe mee froe; 
If I bee Robin alive in this lande, 
I'le be wrocken^^ on both them 
towe." 

4. "Sweavens^^ are swift, master," quoth 

John, 
"As the wind that blowes ore a hill; 
Ffor if itt be never soe lowde this 
night, 
To-morrow it may be still." 

5. "Buske^- yee, bowne^^ yee, my merry 

men all, 
Ffor John shall goe with mee; 
For I'le goe seeke yond wight yeomen 
In greenwood where the^'* bee." 

1 impatient. ^ jf 3 stable. 

* thickets. ^ beautiful. " copses, 

'woodlark. * of Linn ("a stock ballad locality"), 

•sturdy. '"avenged. "dreams. 

1! make ready. " dress yourselves. " they. 



6. The cast on their gowne of greene, 

A shooting gone are they, 
Untill they came to the merry green- 
wood, 
Where they had gladdest bee; 
There were they ware of [a] wight 
yeoman. 
His body leaned to a tree. 

7. A sword and a dagger he wore by his 

side, 
Had beene many a man's banc, 
And he was cladd in his capull-hyde,^'^ 
Topp, and tayle, and mayne. 

8. "Stand you still, master," quoth 

Litle John, 
"Under this trusty tree, 
And I will goe to yond wight yeoman. 
To know his meaning trulye." 

9. "A, John, by me thou. setts noe store. 

And that's a ffarley^^ thinge; 

How offt send I my men beffore. 

And tarry my-selfe behinde? 

10. "It is noe cunning a knave to ken. 

And a man but heare him speake; 
And itt were not for bursting of my 
bowe, 
John, I wold thy head breake." 

11. But often words they breeden bale;^'^ 

That parted Robin and John ; 
John is gone to Barn[e]sdale, 
The gates^^ he knowes eche one. 

12. And when hee came to Barnesdale, 

Great heavinesse there hee hadd; 
He ffound two of his fellowes 
Were slaine both in a slade,^^ 

13. And Scarlett a-ffoote flyinge was, 

Over stockes and stone, 
For the sheriffe with seven score men 
Fast after him is gone. 

14. "Yett one shoote I'le shoote," sayes 

Litle John, 
"With Crist his might and ma}-ne; 
I'le make yond fellow that fiyes soe 
fast 
To be both glad and ffaine." 

15 horse-hide. '« wonderful. '^ evil. " ways. " valley. 



36 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



15. John bent up a good veiwe^ bow, 

And ffetteled- him to shoote; 
The bow was made of a tender boughe, 
And fell downe to his foote. 

16. " Woe worth thee, wicked wood," sayd 

Litle John, 
"That ere thou grew on a tree! 
Ffor this day thou art my bale, 
My boote^ when thou shold bee! " 

17. This shoote it was but looselye shott. 

The arrowe flew in vaine, 
And it mett one of the sheriff es men; 
Good William a Trent was slaine. 

18. It had beene better for William a 

Trent 
To hange upon a gallowe 
Then for to lye in the greenwoode, 
There slaine with an arrowe. 

19. And it is sayd, when men be mett. 

Six can doe more then three: 
And they have tane Litle John, 
And bound him ffast to a tree. 

20. "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and 

downe," quoth the sheriff e, 
' ' And hanged hy e on a hill ; ' ' 
"But thou may ffayle," quoth Litle 

John, 
"If itt be Christ's owne will." 

21. Let us leave talking of Litle John, 

For he.e is bound fast to a tree, 
And talke of Guy and Robin Hood 
In the green woode where they bee. 

22. How these two yeomen together they 

mett. 
Under the leaves of lyne, 
To see what marchandise'* they made 
Even at that same time. 

23. "Good morrow, good fellow," quoth 

Sir Guy; 
" Good morrow, good ffellow," quoth 
hee; 
"Methinkes by this bow thou beares 
in thy hand, 
A good archer thou seems to bee." 

' yew. 2 made ready. ^ help. ^ dealing. 



24. "I am wilfuU of my way," quoth Sir 

Guye, 
"And of my morning tyde: " 
"I'le lead thee through the wood," 

quoth Robin, 
"Good ffellow, I'le be thy guide." 

25. "I seeke an outlaw," quoth Sir Guye, 

" Men call him Robin Hood; 
I had rather meet with him upon a day 
Than forty pound of golde." 

26. "If you tow mett, itt wold be scene 

whether were better 
Afore yee did part awaye; 
Let us some other pastime find, 
Good ffellow, I thee pray. 

27. "Let us some other masteryes make, 

And wee will walke in the woods 

even; 
Wee may chance mee[t] with Robin 

Hoode 
Att some unsett Steven."^ 

28. They cutt them downe the summer 

shroggs^ 
Which grew both under a bryar. 
And sett them three score rood in 

twinn,^ 
To shoote the prickes full neare. 

29. "Leade on, good ffellow," sayd Sir 

Guye, 
"Lead on, I doe bidd thee:" 
"Nay, by my faith," quoth Robin 
Hood, 
"The leader thou shalt bee." 

30. The first good shoot that Robin ledd, 

Did not shoote an inch the pricke 
ffroe; 
Guy was an archer good enoughe, 
But he cold neere shoote soe. 

31. The second shoote Sir Guy shott, 

He shott within the garlande; 
But Robin Hoode shott it better than 

hee. 
For he clove the good pricke- 

wande. 



5 time not fixed. 



^ rods. 



' apart. 



THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 



37 



32. "Gods blessing on thy heart!" sayes 

Guye, 
"Goode ffellow, thy shooting is 

goode; 
For an thy hart be as good as thy 

hands, 
Thou were better than Robin Hood. 

33. "Tell me thy name, good ffellow," 

quoth Guy, 
" Under the leaves of lyne: " 
"Nay, by my faith," quoth good 
Robin, 
" Till thou have told me thine." 

34. "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth 

Guye, 
"And I have done many a curst 

turne ; 
And he that calles me by my right 

name, 
Calles me Guye of good Gysborne." 

35. "My dwelling is in the wood," sayes 

Robin; 

"By thee I set right nought; 
My name is Robin Hood of Barnes- 
dale, 

A ffellow thou has long sought." 

36. He that had neither beene a kithe nor 

kin 
Might have seene a full fayre sight, 
To see how together these yeomen 

went. 
With blades both browne and 

bright; 

37. To have seene how these yeomen to- 

gether foug[ht] 
Two howers of a summer's day; 
Itt was neither Guy nor Robin Hood 
That ffettled^ them to flye away. 

38. Robin was reacheles on- a roote, 

And stumbled at that tyde. 
And Guy was quicke and nimble 
with-all. 
And hitt him ore the left side. 

39. "Ah, deere Lady!" sayd Robin 

Hoode, 
"Thou art both mother and may ! '^ 
I thinke it was never mans destinye 
To dye before his day." 

'prepared. -careless of. 'maid. 



40. Robin thought on Our Lady deere, 

And soone leapt up againe. 
And thus he came with an awkwarde^ 
stroke; 
Good Sir Guy hee has slayne, 

41. He tooke Sir Guys head by the hayre. 

And sticked itt on his bowes end: 

"Thou hast beene tray tor all thy liffe, 

Which thing must have an ende." 

42. Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe. 

And nicked Sir Guy in the fface. 
That hee was never on a woman borne 
Cold tell who Sir Guye was. 

43. Sales, "Lye there, lye there, good Sir 

Guye, 
And with me be not wrothe; 
If thou have had the worse stroakes at 

my hand. 
Thou shalt have the better cloathe." 

44. Robin did off his gowne of greene, 

Sir Guye hee did it throwe; 

And hee put on that capull-hyde 

That cladd him topp to toe. 

45. "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle 

home. 
And with me now I'le beare; 
For now I will goe to Barne[s]dale, 
To see how my men doe ffare." 

46. Robin sette Guyes home to his mouth, 

A lowd blast in it he did blow; 
That beheard the sheriffe of Notting- 
ham, 
As he leaned under a lowe.^ 

47 . " Hearken ! hearken ! ' ' sayd the sheriffe, 

" I heard noe tydings but good; 
For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home 
bio we. 
For he hath slaine Robin Hoode. 

48. " For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home 

blow, 

Itt blowes soe well in tyde, 
For yonder comes that wighty yeo- 
man, 

Cladd in his capull-hyde. 

* backhanded. ' hill. 



38 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



49. " Come hither, thou good Sir Guy, 

Aske of mee what thou wilt have:" 
"I'le none of thy gold," sayes Robin 
Hood, 
"Nor I'le none of itt have. 

50. "But now I have slaine the master," 

he sayd, 
"Let me goe strike the knave; 
This is all the reward I aske, 
Nor noe other will I have." 

51. "Thou art a madman," said the 

shiriffe, 
"Thou sholdest have had a knights 

ffee; 
Seeing thy asking [hath] beene soe 

badd. 
Well granted it shall be." 

52. But Li tie John heard his master 

speake. 
Well he knew that was his steven;^ 
"Now shall I be loset," quoth Litle 

John, 
"With Christ's might in heaven." 

53. But Robin hee hyed him towards Litle 

John, 
Hee thought hee wold loose him 

belive ;^ 
The sheriffe and all his companye 
Fast after him did drive. 

54. "Stand abacke! stand abacke!" sayd 

Robin; 
" Why draw you mee soe neere? 
Itt was never the use in our countrye 
One's shrift another shold heere." 

55. But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe, 
. And losed John hand and ffoote, 
And gave liim Sir Guyes bow in his 

hand. 
And bade it be his boote.^ 

56. But John tooke Guyes bow in his 

hand — 
His arrowes were rawstye^ by the 

roote; 
The sherriffe saw Litle John draw a 

bow 
And ffettle him to shoote. . 

' voice. - quickly. ' help. ^ soiled. 



57. Towards his house in Nottingam ' 

He ffled ful fast away. 
And soe did all his companye. 
Not one behind did stay. 

58. But he cold neither soe fast goe, 

Nor away soe fast runn, 
But Litle John, with an arrow broade, 
Did cleave his heart in twinn. 

ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND 
BURIAL 

1. When Robin Hood and Little John 

Down a down a down a down 
Went oer yon bank of broom 

Said Robin Hood bold to Little 
John, 
"We have shot for many a pound." 

Hey, etc. 

2. "But I am not able to shoot one shot 

more. 
My broad arrows will not flee; 
But I have a cousin lives down below, 
Please God, she will bleed me." 

3. Now Robin he is to fair Kirkly gone, 

As fast as he can win; 
But before he came there, as we do 
hear, 
He was taken very ill. 

4. And when he came to fair Kirkly-hall, 

He knockd all at the ring. 
But none was so ready as his cousin 
herself 
For to let bold Robin in. 

5. "Will you please to sit down, cousin 

Robin," she said, 
"And drink some beer with me?" 
"No, I will neither eat nor drink. 
Till I am blooded by thee." 

6. "Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," 

she said, 
"Which you did never see. 
And if you please to walk therein. 
You blooded by me shall be." 

7. She took him by the lily-white hand, 

And led him to a private room, 
And there she blooded bold Robin 

Hood, 
While one drop of blood would run 

down. 



THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 



3Q 



8. She blooded him in a vein of the arm, 

And locked him up in the room; 
Then did he bleed all the live-long day, 
Until the next day at noon. 

9. He then bethought him of a casement 

there, 
Thinking for to get down; 
But was so weak he could not leap, 
He could not get him down. 

10. He then bethought him of his bugle- 

horn. 
Which hung low down to his knee; 
He set his horn unto his mouth. 
And blew out weak blasts three. 

11. Then Little John, when hearing him. 

As he sat under a tree, 
"I fear my master is now near dead. 
He blows so wearily." 

12. Then Little John to fair Kirkly is gone, 

As fast as he can dree; 
But when he came to Kirkly-hall, 
He broke locks two or three: 

13. Until he came bold Robin to see, 

Then he fell on his knee; 
"A boon, a boon," cries Little John, 
"Master, I beg of thee." 

14. "What is that boon," said Robin 

Hood, 
"Little John, [thou] begs of me?" 
" It is to burn fair Kirkly-hall, 
And all their nunnery." 

15. "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin 

Hood, 
"That boon I'll not grant thee; 
I never hurt woman in all my life. 
Nor men in woman's company. 

16. " I never hurt fair maid in all my time, 

Nor at mine end shall it be; 
But give me my bent bow in my hand. 

And a broad arrow I'll let flee, 
And where this arrow is taken up, 

There shall my grave digged be. 

17. "Lay me a green sod under my head, 

And another at my feet; 



And lay my bent bow by my side, 
Which was my music sweet; 

And make my grave of gravel and 
green. 
Which is most right and meet. 

18. "Let me have length and breadth 

enough, 
With a green sod under my head ; 
That they may say, when I am dead, 
Here lies bold Robin Hood." 

19. These words they readily granted him. 

Which did bold Robin please: 
And there they buried bold Robin 
Hood, 
Within the fair Kirkleys. 

THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT 

1. The Perse owt off Northombarlonde, 

and avowe to God mayd he 
That he would hunte in the mown- 
tayns 

off Chyviat within days thre, 
In the magger of^ doughte Dogles, 

and all that ever with him be. 

2. The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat 

he sayd he wold kyll, and carj^ them 

away : 
"Be my feth," sayd the dougheti 

Doglas agayn, 
" I wyll let- that hontyng yf that I 

may." 

3. Then the Perse owt off Banborowe 

cam, 
with him a myghtee meany,^ 
With fifteen hondrith archares bold 
off blood and bone; 
the^ wear chosen owt of shyars thre. 

4. This begane on a Monda}' at morn, 

in Cheviat the hillys so he;'' 
The chylde may rue that ys unborn, 
it wos the more pitte. 

5. The dry\'ars thorowe the woodes went, 

for to reas the dear; 
Bomen byckarte® uppone the bent^ 
with ther browd aros cleare. 



' despite, 
■high. 



- hinder. 
• hunted. 



'crowd. 
' field. 



they. 



40 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



6. Then the wyld^ thorowe the woodes 

went, 
on every syde shear ;^ 
Greahondes thorowe the grevis^ 

glent,^ 
for to kyll thear dear. 

7. This begane in Chyviat the hyls 

abone,^ 
yerly on a Monnyn-day; 
Be that^ it drewe to the oware off 

none/ 
a hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. 

8. The^ blewe a mort^ uppone the bent, 

the semblyde^*' on sydis^^ shear; 
To the quyrry then the Perse went, 
to se the bryttlynge^^ off the deare. 

9. He sayd, "It was the Duglas promys, 

this day to met me hear; 
But I wyste he wolde faylle, vera- 
ment;" 
a great oth the Perse swear. 

10. At the laste a squyar off Northomber- 

londe 
lokyde at his hand full ny; 
He was war a the doughetie Doglas 

commynge, 
with him a myghtte meany. 

11. Both with spear, bylle, and brande, 

yt was a myghtti sight to se; 
Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande, 
wear not in Cristiante. 

12. The wear twenti hondrith spear- men 

good, 
withoute any feale; 
The wear borne along be the watter a 

Twyde, 
yth^^ bowndes of Tividale. 

13. "Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," 

he sayd, 
"and to your boys^"* lock ye tayk 
good hede; 
For never sithe ye wear on your 
mothars borne 
had ye never so mickle nede." 

■ deer. ^ several. s groves. ^ darted. ^ above. 
^ by the time that. ' hour of noon. ^ they. 

' a blast of the horn announcing the deer's death. 
'" met. 1' hillsides. " butchering, i' in the. " bows. 



14. The dougheti Dogglas on a stede, 

he rode alle his men beforne; 
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;^^ 
a boldar barne^^ was never born. 

15. "Tell me whos men ye ar," he says, 

"or whos men that ye be: 
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this 
Chyviat chays, 
in the spyt of myn and of me." 

16. The first mane that ever him an 

answear mayd, 
yt was the good lord Perse: 
"We wyll not tell the whoys men 
we ar," he says, 
"nor whos men that we be; 
But we wyll hounte hear in this chays, 
in the spyt of thyne and of the. 

17. "The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat 

we have kyld, and cast to carry 

them away." 
"Be my troth," sayd the doughete 

Dogglas agay[n], 
"therfor the ton^^ of us shall de this 

day." 

18. Then sayd the doughte Doglas 

unto the lord Perse: 
"To kyll alle thes giltles men, 
alas, it wear great pitte! 

ig. " But, Perse, thowe art a lord of lande, 

I am a yerle callyd within my contre; 

Let all our men uppone a parti stande, 

and do the battell off the and of 

me." 

20. "Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," 

sayd the lord Perse, 
"who-so-ever ther-to says nay! 
Be my troth, doughtte Doglas," he 
says, 
" thow shalt never se that day, 

21. "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar 

France, 
nor for no man of a woman born, , 
But, and fortune be my chance, 
I dar met him, on man for on." 

'^ coal of fire. ~ " man. " one. 



THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS 



41 



22. Then bespayke a squyar off Northom- 

barlonde, 
Richard Wytharyngton was his 

nam: 
''It shall never be told in Sothe- 

Ynglonde," he says, 
"to Kyng Herry the Fourth for 

sham. 

23. "I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, 

I am a poor squyar of lande : 
I wylle never se my captayne fyght on 
a fylde, 
and stande my selffe and loocke on, 
But whylle I may my weppone welde, 
I wylle not [fayle] both hart and 
hande." 

24. That day, that day, that dredfull day! 

the first fit^ here I fynde; 
And youe wyll here any mor a the 
hountyng a the Chyviat, 
yet ys ther mor behynde. 

25. The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys 

yebent, 
ther hartes wer good yenoughe; 
The first off arros that the shote off, 
seven skore spear-men the sloughe.'' 

26. Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon 

the bent, 
a captayne good yenoughe, 
And that was sene verament, 

for he wrought hom both woo and 

wouche.^ 

27. The Dogglas partyd his ost in thre, 

lyk a cheffe chef ten off pryde; 
With suar'* spears off myghtte tre, 
the cum in on every syde: 

28. Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery 

gave many a wounde fuUe •v\yde; 
many a doughete the garde^ to dy, 
which ganyde them no pryde. 

29. The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be, 

and pulde owt brandes that wer 
brighte; 
It was a hevy syght to se 

bryght swordes on basnites^ lyght. 



30. Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple,^ 

many sterne^ the strocke done^. 
streght ; 
Many a freyke^'' that was fulle fre, 
ther undar foot dyd lyght. 

31. At last the Duglas and the Perse met, 

lyk to captayns of myght and of 

mayne ; 
The swapte^^ togethar tylle the both 

swat,^^ 
with swordes that wear of fyn 

myllan.^^ 

32. Thes worthe freckys for to fyght, 

ther-to the wear fulle fayne, 
Tylle the bloode owte off thear 
basnetes sprente 
as ever dyd heal^^ or ra[y]n. 

33. " Yelde the, Perse," sayde the Doglas, 

" and i feth I shalle the brynge 
Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis 
of Jamy our Skottish kynge. 

34. "Thou shalte have thy ransom fre, 

I hight^^ the hear this thinge ; 
For the manfullyste man yet art 

thowe 
that ever I conqueryd in filde 

fighttynge." 

35. "Nay," sayd the lord Perse, 

"I tolde it the beforne, 
That I wolde never yeldyde be 
to no man of a woman born." 

36. With that ther cam an arrowe hastely, 

forthe off a myghtte wane;^^ 
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas 
in at the brest-bane. 

37. Thorowe lyvar^'' and longes bathe^ 

the sharpe arrowe ys gane. 
That never after in all his lyffe-days 

he spayke mo wordes but ane : 
That was, "Fyghte ye, my myrry 
men, whyllys ye may, 

for my lyflF-days ben gan." 

38. The Perse leanyde on his brande, 

and sawe the Duglas de; 
He tooke the dede mane by the hande, 
and sayd, "Wo ys me for the! 









' gauntlet. 


' stem men. 


• down. 


'" bold man 


' division of the story, chapter. 


- slew. 


' harm. 


" smote. 


'2 sweated. 


i» Milan steel. 


I'hail. 


* trusty. 


5 made. 


s helmets. 


'5 bid. 


'5 number. 


" liver. 


'5 both. 



44 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



SIR THOMAS MALORY (1400?-1470) 
From LE MORTE DARTHUR 

PREFACE OF WILLIAM CAXTON 

After that I had accompHshed and fin- 
ished divers histories, as well of contem- 
plation as of other historial and worldly 
acts of great conquerors and princes, and 
also certain books of ensamples and doc- 
trine, many noble and divers gentlemen of 
this realm of England came and demanded 
me many and ofttimes, wherefore that I 
have not do made and imprint the noble 
history of the Saint Greal and of the [lo 
most renow^ned Christian king, first and 
chief of the three best Christian, and 
worthy, king Arthur, which ought most 
to be remembered among us Englishmen 
tofore all other Christian kings; for it is 
notoriously known through the universal 
world that there be nine worthy and the 
best that ever were, that is to wit three 
Paynims, three Jews, and three Christian 
men. As for the Paynims they were [20 
tofore the Incarnation of Christ, which 
were named, the first Hector of Troy, of 
whom the history is come, both in ballad 
and in prose; the second Alexander the 
Great, and the third Julius Caesar, Em- 
peror of Rome, of whom the histories be 
well known and had. And as for the three 
Jews, which also were tofore the incar- 
nation of our Lord, of whom the first was 
duke Joshua which brought the chil- [30 
dren of Israel into the land of behest, the 
second David king of Jerusalem, and the 
third Judas Maccabaeus. Of these three 
the Bible rehearseth all their noble his- 
tories and acts. And since the said incar- 
nation have been three noble Christian 
men stalled and admitted through the uni- 
versal world into the number of the nine 
best and worthy. Of whom was first the 
noble Arthur, whose noble acts I pur- [40 
pose to write in this present book here fol- 
lowing. The second was Charlemain, or 
Charles the Great, of whom the history is 
had in many places, both in French and 
in English. And the third and last was 
Godfrey of Boloine, of whose acts and life 
I made a book unto the excellent prince 
and king of noble memory, king Edward 



the Fourth. The said noble gentlemen in- 
stantly required me to imprint the his- [50 
tory of the said noble king and conqueror 
king Arthur, and of his knights, with the 
history of the Saint Greal, and of the 
death and ending of the said Arthur; af- 
firming that I ought rather to imprint his 
acts and noble feats, than of Godfrey of 
Boloine, or any of the other eight, con- 
sidering that he was a man born within this 
realm, and king and emperor of the same; 
and that there be in French divers and [60 
many noble volumes of his acts, and also 
of his knights. To whom I answered, that 
divers men hold opinion that there was no 
such Arthur, and that all such books as 
been made of him be feigned and fables, 
because that some chronicles make of him 
no mention, nor remember him nothing, 
nor of his knights. Whereto they an- 
swered, and one in special said, that in 
him that should say or think that there [70 
was never such a king called Arthur, 
might well be aretted great folly and 
blindness. For he said that there were 
many evidences of the contrary. First 
ye may see his sepulchre in the monastery 
of Glastingbury. And also in Polichroni- 
con, in the fifth book the sixth chapter, 
and in the seventh book the twenty-third 
chapter, where his body was buried, and 
after found, and translated into the [80 
said monastery. Ye shall see also in the 
history of Bochas in his book De Casu 
Principum part of his noble acts, and also 
of his fall. Also Galfridus in his British 
book recounteth his life; and in divers 
places of England many remembrances be 
yet of him and shall remain perpetually, 
and also of his knights. First in the abbey 
of Westminster, at Saint Edward's shrine, 
remaineth the print of his seal in red [90 
wax closed in beryl, in which is written 
Patricius Arthurus. Britannie, Gallie, Ger- 
manie, Dade, Imperator. Item in the 
castle of Dover ye may see Gawaine's 
skull and Cradok's mantle: at Winchester 
the Round Table: in other places Launce- 
lot's sword and many other things. Then 
all these things considered, there can no 
man reasonably gainsay but that there 
was a king of this land named Arthur. [100 
For in all places. Christian and heathen, 
he is reputed and taken for one of the 



MALORY 



45 



nine worthy, and the first of the three 
Christian men. And also he is more spoken 
of beyond the sea, more books made of 
his noble acts, than there be in England, 
as well in Dutch, Italian, Spanish, and 
Greekish, as in French. And yet of record 
remain in witness of him in Wales, in the 
town of Camelot, the great stones [no 
and the marvelous works of iron lying 
under the ground, and royal vaults, which 
divers now living have seen. Wherefore 
it is a marvel why he is no more renowned 
in his own country, save only it accordeth 
to the Word of God, which saith that no 
man is accepted for a prophet in his own 
country. 

Then all these things aforesaid alleged, 
I could not well deny but that there [120 
was such a noble king named Arthur, and 
reputed one of the nine worthy, and first 
and chief of the Christian men. And 
many noble volumes be made of him and 
of his noble knights in French, which I 
have seen and read beyond the sea, which 
be not had in our maternal tongue. But 
in Welsh be many and also in French, and 
some in English, but nowhere nigh all. 
Wherefore, such as have late been [130 
drawn out briefly into English I have after 
the simple conning that God hath sent to 
me, under the favor and correction of all 
noble lords and gentlemen, enprised to im- 
print a book of the noble histories of the 
said king Arthur, and of certain of his 
knights, after a copy unto me delivered, 
which copy Sir Thomas Malorye did take 
out of certain books of French, and re- 
duced it into English. And I, accord- [140 
ing to my copy, have done set it in print, 
to the intent that noble men may see and 
learn the noble acts of chivalry, the gentle 
and virtuous deeds that some knights 
used m those days, by which they came 
to honor, and how they that were vicious 
were punished and oft put to shame and 
rebuke; humbly beseeching all noble lords 
and ladies, vnth. all other estates of what 
estate or degree they been of, that [150 
shall see and read in this said book and 
work, that they take the good and honest 
acts in their remembrance, and to follow 
the same. Wherein they shall find many 
joyous and pleasant histories, and noble 
and renowned acts of humanity, gentle- 



ness, and chivalry. For herein may be 
seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, 
friendhness, hardiness, love, friendship, 
cowardice, murder, hate, virtue, and [160 
sin. Do after the good and leave the evil, 
and it shall bring you to good fame and 
renown. And for to pass the time this 
book shall be pleasant to read in; but for 
to give faith and belief that all is true that 
is contained herein, ye be at your liberty; 
but all is written for our doctrine, and 
for to beware that we fall not to vice nor 
sin, but to exercise and follow virtue, 
by the which we may come and at- [170 
tain to good fame and renown in this life, 
and after this short and transitory life to 
come unto everlasting bliss in heaven; 
the which He grant us that reigneth in 
heaven, the blessed Trinity. Amen. 

BOOK XXI 
Chapter IV 

HOW BY MISADVENTURE OF AN ADDER THE 
BATTLE BEGAN, WHERE MORDRED WAS 
SLAIN, AND ARTHUR HURT TO THE DEATH 

Then were they condescended that king 
Arthur and Sir Mordred should meet be- 
twixt both their hosts, and every each of 
them should bring fourteen persons. And 
they came with this word imto Arthur. 
Then said he, I am glad that this is done. 
And so he went into the field. And when 
Arthur should depart, he warned all his 
host that and they see any sword drawn, 
Look ye come on fiercely, and slay [10 
that traitor, Sir Mordred, for I in no wise 
trust him. In hke wise Sir Mordred 
warned his host that, And ye see any 
sword drawn, look that ye come on fiercely, 
and so slay all that ever before you stand- 
eth: for in no wise I will not trust for this 
treaty, for I know well my father \\-ill be 
avenged upon me. And so they met as 
their pointment was, and so they were 
agreed and accorded thoroughly; and [20 
mne was fetched, and they drank. Right 
so came an adder out of a little heath 
bush, and it stung a knight on the foot. 
And when the knight felt him stungen, 
he looked down and saw the adder, and 
then he drew his sword to slay the adder, 
and thought of none other harm. And 



46 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



when the host on both parties saw that 
sword drawn, then they blew beames, 
trumpets, and horns, and shouted [30 
grimly. And so both hosts dressed them 
together. And king Arthur took his horse, 
and said, Alas, this unhappy day, and so 
rode to his party; and Sir Mordred in like 
wise. And never was there seen a more 
dolefuller battle in no Christian land. For 
there was but rushing and riding, foining 
and striking, and many a grim word was 
there spoken either to other, and many a 
deadly stroke. But ever king Arthur [40 
rode throughout the battle of Sir Mordred 
many times, and did full nobly as a noble 
king should, and at all times he fainted 
never. And Sir Mordred that day put him 
in devoir, and in great peril. And thus 
they fought all the long day, and never 
stinted, till the noble knights were laid to 
the cold ground, and ever they fought still, 
till it was near night, and by that time 
was there an hundred thousand laid [50 
dead upon the down. Then was Arthur 
wroth out of measure, when he saw his 
people so slain from him. 

Then the king looked about him, and 
then was he ware of all his host, and of 
all his good knights, were left no more on 
live but two knights, that was Sir Lucan 
the Butler, and his brother Sir Bedivere, 
and they were full sore wounded. Jesu 
mercy, said the king, where are all my [60 
noble knights becomen? Alas, that ever 
I should see this doleful day. For now, 
said Arthur, I am come to mine end. But 
would to God that I wist where were that 
traitor Sir Mordred, that hath caused all 
this mischief. Then was king Arthur ware 
where Sir Mordred leaned upon his sword 
among a great heap of dead men. Now 
give me my spear, said Arthur unto Sir 
Lucan, for yonder I have espied the [70 
traitor that all this woe hath wrought. 
Sir, let him be, said Sir Lucan, for he is 
unhappy; and if ye pass this unhappy day, 
ye shall be right well revenged upon him. 
Good lord, remember ye of your night's 
dream, and what the spirit of Sir Gawaine 
told you this night, yet God of his great 
goodness hath preserved you hitherto. 
Therefore, for God's sake, my lord, leave 
off by this. For, blessed be God, ye [80 
have won the field, for here we be three on 



live, and with Sir Mordred is none on live. 
And if ye leave off now, this wicked day 
of destiny is past. Tide me death, betide 
me life, saith the king, now I see him 
yonder alone, he shall never escape mine 
hands, for at a better avail shall I never 
have him. God speed you well, said Sir 
Bedivere. 

Then the king gat his spear in both [90 
his hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred, 
crying. Traitor, now is thy death-day 
come. And when Sir Mordred heard Sir 
Arthur, he ran until him with his sword 
drawn in his hand. And then king Arthur 
smote Sir Mordred under the shield, 
with a foin of his spear throughout the 
body more than a fathom. And when 
Sir Mordred felt that he had his death's 
wound, he thrust himself, with the [100 
might that he had, up to the bur of king 
Arthur's spear. And right so he smote 
his father Arthur with his sword holden in 
both his hands, on the side of the head, 
that the sword pierced the helmet and the 
brain-pan, and therewithal Sir Mordred 
fell stark dead to the earth. And the noble 
Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and 
there he swooned oft-times. And Sir 
Lucan the Butler, and Sir Bedivere, [no 
oft-times heaved him up, and so weakly 
they led him betwixt them both, to a little 
chapel not far from the sea side. And 
when the king was there, he thought him 
well eased. 

Then heard they people cry in the field. 
Now go, thou, Sir Lucan, said the king, 
and do me to wit what betokens that 
noise in the field. So Sir Lucan departed, 
for he was grievously wounded in [120 
many places. And so as he went, he saw 
and hearkened by the moonlight, how the 
pillers and robbers were come into the 
field to pill and to rob many a full noble 
knight of brooches and beads, of many 
a good ring, and of many a rich jewel; and 
who that were not dead all out, there 
they slew them for their harness and their 
riches. When Sir Lucan understood this 
work, he came to the king as soon as [130 
he might, and told him all what he had 
heard and seen. Therefore by mine ad- 
vice, said Sir Lucan, it is best that we 
bring you to some town. I would it were 
so, said the king. 



MALORY 



47 



Chapter V 

HOW KING ARTHUR COMMANDED TO CAST 
HIS SWORD EXCALIBUR INTO THE WATER, 
AND HOW HE WAS DELIVERED TO LADIES 
• IN A BARGE 

But I may not stand, mine head works 
so. Ah, Sir Launcelot, said king Arthur, 
this day have I sore missed thee. Alas, 
that ever I was against thee, for now have 
I my death, whereof Sir Gawaine me 
warned in my dream. Then Sir Lucan 
took up the king the one part, and Sir 
Bedivere the other part, and in the Ufting 
the king swooned, and Sir Lucan fell in 
a swoon with the lift, that the part of [lo 
his bowels fell out of his body, and there- 
with the noble knight's heart brast. And 
when king Arthur came to himself again, 
he beheld Sir Lucan, how he lay foaming 
at the mouth, and part of his bowels lay 
at his feet. Alas, said the king, this is 
unto me a full heavy sight, to see this 
noble duke so die for my sake, for he would 
have holpen me that had more need of 
help than I. Alas, he would not com- [20 
plain him, his heart was so set to help me. 
Now Jesu have mercy upon his soul. Then 
Sir Bedivere wept for the death of his 
brother. Leave this mourning and weep- 
ing, said the king, for all this will not avail 
me; for, wit thou well, and I might live 
myself the death of Sir Lucan would 
grieve me evermore; but my time hieth 
fast, said the king. Therefore, said 
Arthur, take thou Excalibur, my good [30 
sword, and go with it to yonder water 
side, and when thou comest there, I 
charge thee throw my sword in that water, 
and come again, and tell me what thou 
there seest. My lord, said Bedivere, your 
commandment shall be done, and lightly 
bring you word again. 

So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the 
way he beheld that noble sword, that the 
pommel and the haft were all of pre- [40 
cious stones; and then he said to himself, 
If I throw this rich sword in the water, 
thereof shall never come good, but harm 
and loss. And then Sir Bedivere hid 
Excalibur under a tree. And as soon as 
he might he came again unto the king, 
and said he had been at the water, and 
had thrown the sword into the water. 



What sawest thou there? said the king. 
Sir, he said, I saw nothing but waves [50 
and winds. That is untruly said of thee, 
said the king; therefore go thou lightly 
again, and do my command, as thou art 
to me lief and dear, spare not, but throw 
it in. Then Sir Bedivere returned again, 
and took the sword in his hand; and then 
him thought sin and shame to throw away 
that noble sword; and so eft he hid the 
sword, and returned again, and told to 
the king that he had been at the [60 
water, and done his commandment. 
What saw thou there? said the king. Sir, 
he said, I saw nothing but the waters 
wap and the waves wan. Ah traitor, 
untrue, said king Arthur, now hast thou 
betrayed me twice. Who would have 
wend that thou that hast been to me so 
lief and dear, and thou art named a noble 
knight, and would betray me for the rich- 
ness of the sword. But now go again [70 
lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me 
in great jeopardy of my life, for I have 
taken cold. And but if thou do now as 
I bid thee, if ever I may see thee, I shall 
slay thee with mine own hands, for thou 
wouldest for my rich sword see me dead. 
Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went 
to the sword, and lightly took it up, and 
went to the water side; and there he 
bound the girdle about the hilts, and [80 
then he threw the sword as far into the 
water as he might ; and there came an arm 
and an hand above the water, and met 
it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice 
and brandished, and then vanished away 
the hand with the sword in the water. So 
Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and 
told him what he saw. Alas, said the 
king, help me hence, for I dread me I have 
tarried over long. Then Sir Bedivere [90 
took the king upon his back, and so went 
\\ath him to that water side. And when 
they were at the water side, even fast by 
the bank hoved a little barge, with many 
fair ladies in it, and among them all was 
a queen, and all they had black hoods, and 
all they wept and shrieked when they saw 
king Arthur. Now put me into the barge, 
said the king; and so he did softly. And 
there received him three queens with [100 
great mourning, and so they set him 
down, and in one of their laps king Arthur 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



laid his head. And then that queen said, 
Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so 
long from me? Alas, this wound on your 
head hath caught over-much cold. And 
so then they rowed from the land, and 
Sir Bedivere beheld all those ladies go 
from him. Then Sir Bedivere cried, Ah, 
my lord Arthur, what shall become of [no 
me, now ye go from me, and leave me 
here alone among mine enemies? Com- 
fort thyself, said the king, and do as well 
as thou mayest, for in me is no trust for 
to trust in. For I will into the vale of 
Avilion to heal me of my grievous wound. 
And if thou hear never more of me, pray 
for my soul. But ever the queens and 
the ladies wept and shrieked, that it was 
pity to hear. And as soon as Sir Bedi- [120 
vere had lost the sight of the barge, he 
wept and wailed, and so took the forest, 
and so he went all that night, and in the 
morning he was ware betwixt two holts 
hoar, of a chapel and an hermitage. 

Chapter VI 

HOW SIR BEDIVERE FOUND HIM ON THE 
MORROW DEAD IN AN HERMITAGE, AND 
HOW HE ABODE THERE WITH THE HER- 
MIT 

Then was Sir Bedivere glad, and thither 
he went; and when he came into the 
chapel, he saw where lay an hermit grovel- 
ing on all four, there fast by a tomb was 
new graven. When the hermit saw Sir 
Bedivere he knew him well, for he was 
but little before bishop of Canterbury, 
that Sir Mordred banished. Sir, said 
Sir Bedivere, what man is there interred 
that ye pray so fast for? Fair son, [10 
said the hermit, I wot not verily, but by 
deeming. But this night, at midnight, 
here came a number of ladies, and brought 
hither a dead corpse, and prayed me 
to bury him; and here they offered an 
hundred tapers, and gave me an hundred 
besants. Alas, said Sir Bedivere, that 
was my lord king Arthur, that here lieth 
buried in this chapel. Then Sir Bedivere 
swooned, and when he awoke he prayed [20 
the hermit he might abide with him still 
there, to live with fasting and prayers. 
For from hence will I never go, said Sir 
Bedivere, by my will, but all the days of 



my life here to pray for my lord Arthur. 
Ye are welcome to me, said the hermit, 
for I know ye better than ye ween that I 
do. Ye are the bold Bedivere, and the 
full noble duke Sir Lucan the Butler was 
your brother. Then Sir Bedivere told [30 
the hermit all as ye have heard tofore. So 
there bode Sir Bedivere with the hermit 
that was tofore bishop of Canterbury, and 
there Sir Bedivere put upon him poor 
clothes, and served the hermit full lowly 
in fasting and in prayers. 

Thus of Arthur I find never more writ- 
ten in books that be authorized, nor more 
of the certainty of his death heard I 
never tell. [40 



Chapter VII 

OF THE OPINION OF SOME MEN OF THE 
DEATH OF KING ARTHUR; AND HOW 
QUEEN GUENEVER MADE HER A NUN IN 
ALMESBURY 

Yet some men say in many parts of 
England that king Arthur is not dead, but 
had by the will of our Lord Jesu in an- 
other place. And men say that he shall 
come again, and he shall win the holy 
cross. I will not say it shall be so, but 
rather I will say, here in this world he 
changed his life. But many men say that 
there is written upon his tomb this verse: 
Hie jacet Arthurus, Rex quondam, Rex- [10 
que fut'urus. Thus leave I here Sir Bedi- 
vere with the hermit, that dwelled that 
time in a chapel beside Glastonbury, 
and there was his hermitage. And so 
they lived in their prayers and fastings, 
and great abstinence. 

And when queen Guenever understood 
that king Arthur was slain, and all the 
noble knights, Sir Mordred and all the 
remnant, then the queen stole away, [20 
and five ladies with her, and so she went to 
Almesbury, and there she let make her- 
self a nun, and wore white clothes and 
black, and great penance she took, as ever 
did sinful lady in this land, and never 
creature could make her merry, but lived 
in fasting, prayers, and alms-deeds, that 
all manner of people marveled how vir- 
tuously she was changed. 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



EDMUND SPENSER (1552?-1599) 

THE FAERIE QUEENE 

A Letter of the Authors, 

Expounding his whole intention in the 
course of this worker which, for that it 
giveth great Ught to the reader, for the 
better understanding is hereunto an- 
nexed. 

To the Right Noble and Valorous 

Sir Walter Raleigh, Knight; 

Lord Wardein of the Stanneryes, and Her 
Maiesties Liefetenaunt of the County of 
Cornewayll. 

Sir, knowing how doubtfully all alle- 
gories may be construed, and this booke 
of mine, which I have entituled the Faery 
Qiieene, being a continued allegory, or 
darke conceit, I haue thought good, as 
well for avoyding of gealous opinions and 
misconstructions, as also for your better 
light in reading thereof, (being so by you 
commanded,) to discover unto you the 
general intention and meaning, which [lo 
in the whole course thereof I have fash- 
ioned, without expressing of any particular 
purposes, or by accidents therein occa- 
sioned. The generall end therefore of all 
the booke is to fashion a gentleman or 
noble person in vertuous and gentle dis- 
cipline: which for that I conceived shoulde 
be most plausible and pleasing, being 
coloured with an historicall fiction, the 
which the most part of men delight to [20 
read, rather for variety of matter then for 
profite of the ensample, I chose the his- 
torye of King Arthure, as most fitte for 
the excellency of his person, being made 
famous by many men's former workes, 
and also furthest from the daunger of 
en\^, and suspition of present time. In 
which I have followed all the antique 
Poets historicall: first Homere, who in 
the Persons of Agamemnon and Ulys- [30 



ses hath ensampled a good governour and 
a vertuous man, the one in his Ilias, the 
other in his Odysseis; then Virgil, whose 
like intention was to doe in the person of 
Aeneas; after him Ariosto comprised them 
both in his Orlando: and lately Tasso dis- 
severed them againe, and formed both 
parts in two persons, namely that part 
which they in Philosophy call Ethice, or 
vertues of a private man, coloured in [40 
his Rinaldo; the other named Politice in 
his Godfredo. By ensample of which ex- 
cellente poets, I labour to pourtraict in 
Arthure, before he was king, the image of 
a brave knight, perfected in the twelve 
private morall vertues, as Aristotle hath 
devised; the which is the purpose of these 
first twelve bookes: which if I finde to be 
well accepted, I may be perhaps encoraged 
to frame the other part of polliticke [50 
vertues in his person, after that hee came 
to be king. 

To some, I know, this methode will 
seeme displeasaunt, which had rather have 
good discipline delivered plainly in way of 
precepts, or sermoned at large, as they 
use, then thus clowdily enwrapped in 
AUegoricall devises. But such, me seeme, 
should be satisfide with the use of these 
dayes, seeing all things accounted by [60 
their showes, and nothing esteemed of, 
that is not delightfull and pleasing to 
commune sence. For this cause is Xeno- 
phon preferred before Plato, for that the 
one, in the exquisite depth of his judge- 
ment, formed a commune welth, such as 
it should be; but the other in the person 
of Cyrus, and the Persians, fashioned a 
governement, such as might best be: so 
much more profitable and gratious is [70 
doctrine by ensample, then by rule. So 
haue I laboured to doe in the person of 
Arthure: whome I conceive, after his long 
education by Timon, to whom he was 
by Merlin delivered to be brought up, 
so soone as he was borne of the Lady 
Igrayne, to have scene in a dream or 
vision the Faery Queene, with whose 



49 



5° 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



excellent beauty ravished, he awaking 
resolved to seeke her out ; and so being [So 
by Merlin armed, and by Timon throughly 
instructed, he went to seeke her forth in 
Faerye land. In that Faery Queene I 
meane glory in my generall intention, but 
in my particular I conceive the most 
excellent and glorious person of our sover- 
aine the Queene, and her kingdome in 
Faery land. And yet, in some places els, 
I doe otherwise shadow her. For con- 
sidering she beareth two persons, the [go 
one of a most royall Queene or Empresse, 
the other of a most vertuous and beautifuU 
Lady, this latter part in some places I doe 
expresse, in Belphoebe, fashioning her 
name according to your owne excellent 
conceipt of Cynthia, (Phoebe and Cynthia 
being both names of Diana.) So in the 
person of Prince Arthure I sette forth 
magnificence in particular, which vertue, 
for that (according to Artistotle and [loo 
the rest) it is the perfection of all the rest, 
and conteineth in it them all, therefore 
in the whole course I mention the deedes 
of Arthure applyable to that vertue, which 
I write of in that booke. But of the xii. 
other vertues, I make xii. other knights 
the patrones, for the more variety of the 
history: of which these three bookes 
contayn three. The first of the knight 
of the Redcrosse, in whome I expresse [no 
holynes: The seconde of Sir Guyon, in 
whome I sette forth temperaunce: The 
third of Britomartis, a lady knight, in 
whome I picture chastity. But, because 
the beginning of the whole worke seemeth 
abrupte, and as depending upon other 
antecedents, it needs that ye know the 
occasion of these three knights' seuerall 
adventures. For the methode of a poet 
historical is not such, as of an his- [120 
toriographer. For an historiographer dis- 
courseth of affayres orderly as they were 
donne, accounting as well the times as 
the actions; but a poet thrusteth into the 
middest, even where it most concerneth 
him, and there recoursing to the thinges 
forepaste, and divining of thinges to come, 
maketh a pleasing analysis of all. 

The beginning therefore of my history, 
if it were to be told by an historiog- [130 
rapher, should be the twelfth booke, which 
is the last; where I devise that the Faery 



Queene kept her annuall feaste xii. dayes; 
uppon which xii. severall dayes, the occa- 
sions of the xii. severall adventures hapned, 
which, being undertaken by xii. severall 
knights, are in these xii. books severally 
handled and discoursed. The first was 
this. In the beginning of the feast, there 
presented him selfe a tall clownishe [140 
younge man, who, falling before the Queene 
of Faeries, desired a boone (as the manner 
then was) which during that feast she 
might not refuse: which was that hee 
might have the atchievement of any ad- 
venture, which during that feaste should 
happen: that being graunted, he rested 
him on the floore, unfitte through his rus- 
ticity for a better place. Soone after 
entred a faire ladye in mourning [150 
weedes, riding on a white asse, with a 
dwarfe behind her leading a warlike steed, 
that bore the armes of a knight, and his 
speare in the dwarfes hand. Shee, falling 
before the Queene of Faeries, complayned 
that her father and mother, an ancient 
king and queene, had bene by an huge 
dragon many years shut up in a brasen 
castle, who thence suffred them not to 
yssew; and therefore besought the [160 
Faery Queene to assygne her some one of 
her knights to take on him that exployt. 
Presently that clownish person, upstart- 
ing, desired that adventure: whereat the 
Queene much wondering, and the lady 
much gainesaying, yet he earnestly im- 
portuned his desire. In the end the lady 
told him, that unlesse that armour which 
she brought, would serve him (that is, 
the armour of a Christian man sped- [170 
fied by Saint Paul, vi. Ephes.) that he 
could not succeed in that enterprise : which 
being forthwith put upon him, with dewe 
furnitures thereunto, he seemed the good- 
liest man in al that company, and was 
well liked of the lady. And eftesoones 
taking on him knighthood, and mounting 
on that straunge courser, he went forth 
with her on that adventure: where be- 
ginneth the first booke, viz. [180 

A gentle knight was pricking on the 
playne, etc. 

The second day there came in a palmer, 
bearing an infant with bloody hands, 
whose parents he complained to have 



SPENSER 



51 



bene slayn by an enchaunteresse called 
Acrasia; and therefore craved of the 
Faery Queene, to appoint him some 
knight to performe that adventure; which 
being assigned to Sir Guyon, he presently 
went forth with that same palmer: [190 
which is the beginning of the second booke, 
and the whole subject thereof. The third _ 
day there came in a groome, who com- 
plained before the Faery Queene, that a 
vile enchaunter, called Busirane, had in 
hand a most faire lady, called Amoretta, 
whom he kept in most grievous torment, 
because she would not yield him the 
pleasure of her body. Whereupon Sir 
Scudamour, the lover of that lady, [200 
presently tooke on him that adventure. 
But being unable to performe it by reason 
of the hard enchauntments, after long 
sorrow, in the end met with Britomartis, 
who succoured him, and reskewed his 
loue. 

But by occasion hereof many other 
adventures are intermedled; but rather as 
accidents then intendments: as the love of 
Britomart, the overthrow of Marinell, [210 
the misery of Florimell, the vertuousness of 
Belphoebe, the lasciviousnes of Hellenora, 
and many the like. 

Thus much, Sir, I have briefly overronne, 
to direct your understanding to the wel- 
head of the history, that from thence gath- 
ering the whole intention of the conceit 
ye may, as in a handfull, gripe al the dis- 
course, which otherwise may happily seeme 
tedious and confused. So, humbly [220 
craving the continuance of your honor- 
able favour towards me, and th' eternall 
establishment of your happines, I humbly 
take leave. 

23. January, 1589. 
Yours most humbly affectionate, 
Ed. Spenser. 

From Book I, Canto I 

The patrone of true Holinesse 
Foule Errour doth defeate: 

Hypocrisie, him to entrappe, 
Doth to his home entreate. 



A gentle knight was pricking^ on the plaine, 
Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, 

' spurring, riding. 



Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did 
remaine. 

The cruell markes of many a bloody fiielde ; 

Yet armes till that time did he never 
wield: 

His angry steede did chide his foming 
bitt, 6 

As much disdayning to the curbe to 
yield : 

Full joUy^ knight he seemd, and faire did 
sitt. 

As one for knightly giusts^ and fierce en- 
counters fitt. 



But on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, 10 
The deare remembrance of his dying 

Lord, 
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge 

he wore. 
And dead as living ever him ador'd: 
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, 
For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he 

had: 15 

Right faithfuU true he was in deede and 

word. 
But of his cheere^ did seeme too solemne 

sad; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was 

ydrad.^ 

in 

Upon a great adventure he was bond,^ 
That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 20 

That greatest glorious queene of Faery 

Lond, 
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to 

have, 
Which of all earthly thinges he most did 

crave ; 
And ever as he rode his hart did earne^ 
To prove his puissance in battell brave 25 
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne 
Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and 

stearne. 

IV 

A lovely ladie rode him faire beside. 

Upon a lowly asse more white then snow, 

Yet she much whiter, but the same did 

hide 30 

Under a vele, that wimpled^ was full low, 

-callant. 'jousts 

' countenance, expression of his face. ' dreaded. 

6 bound. ' yearn. ^ pleated. 



52 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



And over all a blacke stole shee did throw: 
As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, 
And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow: 
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had; 
And by her in a line a milkewhite lambe 
she lad. 36 



So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, 
She was in life and every vertuous lore, 
And by descent from royall lynage came 
Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of 
yore 40 

Their scepters stretcht from east to west- 
erne shore, 
And all the world in their subjection held. 
Till that infernall feend with foule uprore 
Forwasted^ all their land, and them expeld: 
Whom to avenge, she had this knight from 
far compeld." 45 

VI 

Behind her farre away a dwarfe did lag, 

That lasie seemd, in being ever last, 

Or wearied \\ith bearing of her bag 

Of needments at his backe. Thus as they 

past, 
The day with cloudes was suddeine over- 
cast, 50 
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine 
Did poure into his lemans^ lap so fast, 
That everie mght^ to shrowd^ it did con- 
strain, 
And this faire couple eke^ to shroud them- 
selves were fain. 

vn 

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide, 56 
That promist ayde the tempest to with- 
stand : 
Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers 

pride. 
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did 

hide. 
Not perceable with power of any starr ; 60 
And all wthin were pathes and alleles 

\^dde, 
With footing worne, and leading inward 

farr: 
Faire harbour that them seemes, so in they 
entred ar. 



' utterly laid waste. 

' loved one's, i. e. the earth'5, 

' shelter. 



2 summoned. 
* person. 
6 also. 



VIII 

And foorth they passe, with pleasure for- 
ward led. 
Joying to heare the birdes sweete har- 
_ mony, _ 65 

Which, therein shrouded from the tempest 

dred. 
Seemed in their song to scorne the cruell 

sky. 
Much can^ they praise the trees so 

straight and hy, 
The sayling^ pine, the cedar proud and 

tall, 
The vine-propp elme, the poplar never 

dry, 70 

The builder^ oake, sole king of forrests all. 
The aspine good for staves, the cypresse 

funerall, 

IX 

The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours 
And poets sage, the firre that weepeth 

still. 
The willow worne of forlorne paramours,^" 
The eugh^^ obedient to the benders will, 76 
The birch for shaftes, the sallow for the 

mill, 
The mirrhe sweete bleeding in the bitter 

wound. 
The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill. 
The fruitfuU olive, and the platane^^ 

round, 80 

The carver holme,^^ the maple seeldom 

inward sound. . 

X 

Led with delight, they thus beguile the 

way, 
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne; 
When, weening to returne whence they did 

stray. 
They cannot finde that path, which first 

was showne, 85 

But wander too and fro in waies un- 

knowne. 
Furthest from end then, when they neerest 

weene. 
That makes them doubt, their wits be not 

their owne: 
So many pathes, so many turnings seene. 
That which of them to take, in diverse 

doubt they been. 90 

' did. 5 used for ship timber. ' used for building. 
1" lovers. " yew. ^' plane. 

13 a kind of oak, used for wood carvings. 



SPENSER 



53 



XI 

At last resolving forward still to fare, 
Till that some end they finde, or in or out, 
That path they take, that beaten seemd 

most bare, 
And like to lead the labyrinth about ;^ 
Which when by tract^ they hunted had 

throughout, 95 

At length it brought them to a hoUowe 

cave. 
Amid the thickest woods. The champion 

stout 
Eftsoones^ dismounted from his courser 

brave. 
And to the dwarfe a while his needlesse 

spere he gave. 

XII 

"Be well aware," quoth then that ladie 
milde, loo 

"Least suddaine mischief e ye too rash pro- 
voke: 

The danger hid, the place unknowne and 
wilde, 

Breedes dreadfull doubts: oft fire is with- 
out smoke. 

And perill without show: therefore your 
stroke, 

Sir knight, with-hold, till further tryall 
made." 105 

"Ah, ladie," sayd he, "shame were to re- 
voke 

The forward footing for an hidden shade : 

Vertue gives her selfe light, through 
darkenesse for to wade.""* 



XIII 

"Yea, but," quoth she, "the perill of this 
place 

I better wot then you; though nowe too 
late no 

To wish you backe returne with foule dis- 
grace, 

Yet wisedome warnes, whilest foot is in the 
gate,^ 

To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. 

This is the wandring wood,^ this Errours 
den, 

A monster vile, whom God and man does 
hate: u^ 



> out of. 
'way. 



' forthwith. ■• walk, go. 
' wood of wandering. 



Therefore I read^ beware." "Fly, fly!" 

quoth then 
The fearefuU dwarfe: "this is no place for 

living men." 

XIV 

But full of fire and greedy hardiment,* 
The youthfuU knight could not for ought 

be staide, 
But forth unto the darksom hole he went, 
And looked in: his glistring armor made 121 
A litle glooming light, much like a shade. 
By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, 
Halfe like a serpent horribly displaide, 
But th' other halfe did womans shape re- 

taine, 125 

Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and full of vile 

disdaine.^ 



XXVII 

His lady, seeing all that chaunst, from 

farre, _ _ 235 

Approcht in hast to greet his victorie, 
And saide, "Faire knight, borne under 

happie starre. 
Who see your vanquisht foes before you 

lye. 
Well worthie be you of that armory,^^ 
Wherein ye have great glory wonne this 

day, 240 

And proov'd your strength on a strong eni- 

mie. 
Your first adventure: many such I pray, 
And henceforth ever wish that like succeed 

it may." 

XXVIII 

Then mounted he upon his steede againe, 
And with the lady backward sought to 

wend ; 245 

That path he kept which beaten was most 

plaine, 
Ne ever would to any by way bend, 
But still did follow one unto the end, 
The which at last out of the wood them 

brought. 
So forward on his way (with God to frend) 
He passed forth, and new adventure 

sought: 251 

Long way he travelled, before he heard of 

ought. 



' advise. 

' loathsomeness. 



' impyetuous hardihood. 
1" armor. 



54 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



XXIX 

At length they chaunst to meet upon the 

way 
An aged sire, in long blacke weedes^ 

yclad, 
His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie 

gray, _ _ 255 

And by his belte his booke he hanging had; 
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad. 
And to the ground his eyes were lowly 

bent, 
Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad. 
And all the way he prayed as he went, 260 
And often knockt his brest, as one that did 

repent. 

XXX 

He faire the knight saluted, louting^ low. 
Who faire him quited,^ as that courteous 

was; 
And after asked him, if he did know 
Of straunge adventures, which abroad did 

pas. 26s 

"Ah! my dear sonne," quoth he, "how 

should, alas! 
Silly* old man, that lives in hidden cell. 
Bidding^ his beades all day for his trespas, 
Ty dings of warre and worldly trouble tell? 
With holy father sits^ not with such 

thinges to mell.^ 270 

XXXI 

"But if of daunger, which hereby doth 

dwell. 
And homebredd evil ye desire to heare, 
Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell, 
That wasteth all his countrie farre and 

neare." 
"Of such," saide he, "I chiefly doe in- 

quere, 275 

And shall you well rewarde to shew the 

place. 
In which that wicked wight his dayes doth 

weare: 
For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace. 
That such a cursed creature lives so long a 

space." 

XXXII 

"Far hence," quoth he, "in wastfull wil- 

dernesse, 280 

His dwelling is, by which no living wight 

1 clothes. 2 bowing. ^ requited. ■• simple. 

5 telling, counting. ^ befits. ' meddle. 



May ever passe, but thorough great dis- 

tresse." 
"Now," saide the ladie, "draweth toward 

night. 
And well I wote, that of your later fight 
Ye all forwearied be: for what so strong,285 
But, wanting rest, will also want of might? 
The Sunne, that measures heaven all day 

long. 
At night doth baite^ his steedes the ocean 

waves emong. 

XXXIII 

"Then with the Sunne take, sir, your 

timely rest. 
And with new day new worke at once be- 
gin: 290 
Untroubled night, they say, gives counsell 

best." 
"Right well, sir knight, ye have advised 

bin," 
Quoth then that aged man; "the way to 

win 
Is wisely to advise:^ now day is spent; 
Therefore with me ye may take up your 

in ^ . . ^95 

For this same night." The knight was 

well content: 
So with that godly father to his home they 

went. 

XXXIV 

A litle lowly hermitage it was, 
Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side. 
Far from resort of people, that did pas 300 
In traveill to and f roe : a litle wyde^° 
There was an holy chappell edifyde,^^ 
Wherein the hermite dewly wont to say 
His holy thinges each morne and even- 

tyde: 
Thereby a christall streame did gently 

play, ^ 30s 

Which from a sacred fountaine welled 

forth alway. 

XXXV 

Arrived there, the little house they fill, 
Ne looke for entertainement, where none 
was: 



Rest is their feast, 


and all thinges at their 


will; 




The noblest mind 


the best contentment 


has.- 


310 


8 feed. 


' take thought, consider. 


'» a little way off. 


" built. 



SPENSER 



55 



• With faire discourse the evening so they 
pas: 

For that olde man of pleasing wordes had 
store, 

And well could file his tongue as smooth 
as glas: 

He told of saintes and popes, and ever- 
more 

He strowd an Ave-Mary after and be- 
fore. 315 

XXXVI 

The drouping night thus creepeth on them 

fast, 
And the sad humor^ loading their eye 

liddes, 
As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast 
Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep 

them biddes: 
Unto their lodgings then his guestes he 

riddes:^ 320 

Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe 

he findes, 
He to his studie goes, and there amiddes 
His magick bookes and artes of sundrie 

kindes, 
He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble 

sleepy minds. 

xxxvii 

Then choosing out few words most horri- 
ble, 325 
(Let none them read) thereof did verses 

frame ; 
With which and other spelles like terrible. 
He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly dame, 
And cursed heven, and spake reprochful 

shame 

Of highest God, the Lord of life and 

light: 330 

A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name 

Great Gorgon, prince of darknes and dead 

night, 
At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put 
to flight. 

XXXVIII 

And forth he cald out of deepe darknes 

dredd 
Legions of sprights, the which, like litle 

flyes _ 335 

Fluttring about his ever damned hedd, 
Awaite whereto their service he applyes, 

1 heavy moisture. 2 sends off. 



To aide his friendes, or fray^ his enimies: 
Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo, 
And fittest for to forge true-seeming 

lyes; 340 

The one of them he gave a message too. 
The other by him selfe staide, other worke 

to doo. 

XXXIX 

He, making speedy way through spersed^ 

ayre. 
And through the world of waters wide and 

deepe, 
To Morpheus house doth hastily re- 

paire. 345 

Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe. 
And low, where dawning day doth never 

peepe, 
His dwelling is; there Tethys his wet bed 
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth 

steepe 
In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, 350 
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle 

black doth spred. 

XL 

Whose double gates he findeth locked fast, 
The one faire fram'd of burnisht yvory, 
The other all with silver overcast; 
And wakeful dogges before them farre doe 

lye, _ _ 355 

Watching to banish Care their enimy, 
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. 
By them the sprite doth passe in quietly, 
And unto Morpheus comes, whom 

drowned deepe 
In drowsie fit he findes: of nothing he 

takes keepe.^ 360 

XLI 

And more to luUe him in his slumber soft, 

A trickling streame from high rock tum- 
bling downe, 

And ever drizling raine upon the loft, 

Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like 
the sowne 

Of swarming bees, did cast him in a 
swowne: 365 

No other noyse, nor peoples troublous 
cryes. 

As stilP are wont t'annoy the walled 
towne, 



' frighten. 
» heed. 



* widely diffused. 
' ever. 



56 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet 

lyes, 
Wrapt in eternall silence farre from eni- 

myes. 

XLII 

The messenger approching to him 

spake, 370 

But his waste wordes retournd to him in 

vaine: 
So sound he slept, that nought mought him 

awake. 
Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with 

paine, 
Whereat he gan to stretch: but he againe 
Shooke him so hard, that forced him to 

speake. 375 

As one then in a dreame, whose dryer 

braine 
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies 

weake. 
He mumbled soft, but would not all his 

silence breake. 

XLIII 

The sprite then gan more boldly him to 

wake. 
And threatned unto him the dreaded 

name 3 So 

Of Hecate: whereat he gan to quake. 
And, lifting up his lompish head, with 

blame 
Halfe angrie asked him, for what he came. 
"Hether," quoth he, ''me Archimago sent. 
He that the stubborne sprites can wisely 

tame; 385 

He bids thee to him send for his intent 
A fit false dreame, that can delude the 

sleepers sent."^ 

XLIV 

The god obayde, and caUing forth straight 

way 
x\ diverse dreame out of his prison darke, 
Delivered it to him, and downe did lay 390 
His heavie head, devoide of careful carke;" 
Whose sences all were straight benumbd 

and Starke. 
He, backe returning by the \'A'-orie dore. 
Remounted up as light as cheareful larke. 
And on his litle winges the dreame he bore 
In hast unto his lord, where he him left 

afore. 396 

He. ^ ^ :^ :^ ^ 

1 sense. ^ anxiety. 



From Canto III 



Nought is there under heav'ns wide 

hoUownesse, 
That moves more deare compassion of 

mind, 
Then beautie brought t'unworthie wretch- 

ednesse 
Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes 

unkind : 
I, whether lately through her^ brightnes 

blynd, 5 

Or through alleageance and fast fealty, 
Which I do owe unto all womankynd, 
Feele my hart perst with so great agony, 
When such I see, that all for pitty I could 

dy. 

II 

And now it is empassioned so deepe, 10 
For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, 
That my frayle eies these lines with teares 

do steepe, 
To thinke how she through guyleful 

handeliiig. 
Though true as touch, though daughter of 

a king. 
Though faire as ever living mght was 

fayre, 15 

Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting, 
Is from her knight divorced in despayre, 
And her dew loves deryv'd'* to that vile 

witches shayre. 

Ill 

Yet she, most faithfuU Ladie, all this while 
Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd, 20 

Far from all peoples preace,*^ as in exile, 
In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd, 
To seeke her knight ; who, subtily betrayd 
Through that late vision which th' en- 

chaunter wrought. 
Had her abandond. She, of nought 

affrayd, 25 

Through woods and wastnes wide him 

daily sought; 
Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her 

brought. 

IV 

One day, nigh wearie of the yrksome way, 
From her unhastie beast she did alight; 

2 i. e. beauty's. ^ diverted. = press, crowd. 



SPENSER 



57 



And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay, 
In secrete shadow, far from all mens 
sight: 31 

From her fayre head her fillet she undight, 
And layd her stole aside. Her angels face 
As the great eye of heaven shyned bright. 
And made a sunshine in the shady place ;3 5 
Did never mortall eye behold such heav- 
enly grace. 



It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly, 
Hunting full greedy after salvage' blood. 
Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, 40 
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 
To have attonce devourd her tender corse;- 
But to the pray when as he drew more 

His bloody rage aswaged with remorse. 
And, with the sight amazd, forgat his 
furious forse. 45 

VI 

In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet. 
And lickt her Hlly hands with fawning 

tong, 
As he her wronged innocence did weet.^ 
O how can beautie maister the most strong, 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! 
Whose yielded pryde and proud submis- 
sion, 51 
Still dreading death, when she had marked 

long, 
Her hart gan melt in great compassion. 
And drizling teares did shed for pure affec- 
tion. 

vn 

"The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," 55 
Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth 

abate, 
And mightie proud to humble weake does 

yield, 
ForgetfuU of the hungry rage, which late 
Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate: 
But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, 60 

How does he find in cruell hart to hate 
Her that him lov'd and ever most adord 
As the God of my life? why hath he me 

abhord?" 



'body. 



' know. 



VIII 

Redounding teares did choke th' end of her 

j)laint. 
Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour 

wood ; 6s 

And sad to see her sorrowfull constraint, 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; 
With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry 

mood. 
At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, 
Arose the virgin borne of heavenly brood, 
And to her snowy palfrey got agayne, 71 
To seeke her strayed champion if she 

might attayne. 

IX 

The lyon would not leave her desolate, 
But with her went along, as a strong gard 
Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate 7 5 
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: 
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch 

and ward. 
And when she wakt, he wayted diligent, 
With humble service to her will prepard : 
From her fayre eyes he tooke commande- 

ment, 80 

And ever by her lookes conceived her 

intent. 



Canto XI 

The knight with that old Dragon fights 

Two days incessantly: 
The third him overthrowes, and gayns 

Most glorious victory. 



High time now gan it wex for Una fayre, 
To thinke of those her captive parents 

deare. 
And their forwasted' kingdom to repay re: 
Whereto whenas they now approched 

neare. 
With hartie wordes her knight she gan to 

cheare, 5 

And in her modest maner thus bespake: 
" Deare knight, as deare as ever knight was 

deare, 
That all these sorrowes suffer for my sake, 
High heven behold the tedious toyle ye for 

me take! 

* ravaged. 



58 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



"Now are we come unto my native soyle,io 
And to the place where all our perilles 

dwell; 
Here hauntes that feend, and does his 

dayly spoyle; 
Therefore henceforth bee at your keeping 

well, 
And ever ready for your foeman fell. 
The sparke of noble corage now awake, 1 5 
And strive your excellent selfe to excell: 
That shall ye evermore renowmed make 
Above all knights on earth, that batteill 

undertake." 

Ill 

And pointing forth, "Lo! yonder is," 

(said she) 
"The brasen towre, in which my parents 

deare 20 

For dread of that huge feend emprisond 

be; 
Whom I from far see on the walles ap- 

peare, 
Whose sight my feeble soule doth greatly 

cheare : 
And on the top of all I do espye 
The watchman wayting tydings glad to 

heare; 25 

That, O my Parents! might I happily 
Unto you bring, to ease you of your 

misery!" 

IV 

With that they heard a roaring hideous 

sownd. 
That all the ayre with terror filled wyde. 
And seemd uneath^ to shake the stedfast 

ground. 30 

Eftsoones" that dreadful dragon they 

espyde, 
Where stretcht he lay upon the sunny side 
Of a great hill, himself e like a great hill. 
But all so soone as he from far descry de 
Those glistring armes, that heven with 

light did fill, 35 

He rousd himselfe full blyth, and hastned 

them untilL 



Then badd the knight his Lady yede^ aloof, 
And to an hill herselfe withdraw asyde, 



1 almost. 



2 shortly. 



From whence she might behold that bat- 

tailles proof, 
And eke be safe from daunger far descryde : 
She him obayd, and turned a little wyde.41 
Now, O thou sacred Muse! most learned 

dame, 
Fayre ympe* of Phoebus and his aged 

bryde. 
The nourse of time and everlasting fame, 
That warlike handes ennoblest with im- 

mortall name; 45 

VI 

O gently come into my feeble brest; 
Come gently, but not with that mightie 

rage. 
Wherewith the martiall troupes thou doest 

infest. 
And hartes of great heroes doest enrage, 
That nought their kindled corage may 

as wage : 50 

Soone as thy dreadfuU trompe begins to 

sownd. 
The god of warre with his fiers equipage 
Thou doest awake, sleepe never he so 

sownd; 
And scared nations doest with horror 

Sterne astownd. 



VII 

Fayre goddesse, lay that furious fitt 

asyde, 5 5 

Till I of warres and bloody Mars doe sing, 
And Bryton fieldes with Sarazin blood 

bedyde, 
TwLxt that great Faery Queene and 

Paynim King, 
That with their horror heven and earth 

did ring, 
A worke of labour long, and endlesse 

prayse: 60 

But now a while lett downe that haughtie 

string, 
And to my tunes thy second tenor rayse, 
That I this man of God his godly armes 

may blaze. 

vni 

By this the dreadful Beast drew nigh to 

hand, 
Halfe flying and halfe footing in his haste, 

< chad. 



SPENSER 



59 



That with his largenesse measured much 

land, 66 

And made wide shadow under his huge 

waste, 
As mountaine doth the valley overcaste. 
Approching nigh, he reared high afore 
His body monstrous, horrible, and vaste,7o 
Which, to increase his wondrous greatnes 

more, 
Was swoln with wrath and poyson, and 

with bloody gore. 

IX 

And over all with brasen scales was armd, 
Like plated cote of Steele, so couched 

neare 
That nought mote perce; ne might his 

corse^ bee harmd 75 

With dint of swerd, nor push of pointed 

speare : 
Which as an eagle, seeing pray appeare. 
His aery plumes doth rouze, full rudely 

dight,2 
So shaked he, that horror was to heare : 
For as the clashing of an armor bright, 8o 
Such noyse his rouzed scales did send unto 

the knight. 

X 

His flaggy winges, when forth he did dis- 
play. 

Were like two sayles, in which the hollow 
wynd 

Is gathered full, and worketh speedy 
way: 

And eke the pennes,^ that did his pineons 
bynd, 85 

Were Uke mayne-yardes with flying can- 
vas lynd. 

With which whenas him list the ayre to 
beat. 

And there by force unwonted passage 
fynd. 

The cloudes before him fledd for terror 
great, 

And all the hevens stood still, amazed 
with his threat. 90 

XI 

His huge long tayle, wownd up in hundred 

foldes. 
Does overspred his long bras-scaly back, 

1 body. - arrayed. ' quills. 



Whose wreathed boughtes^ when ever he 

unfoldes. 
And thick entangled knots adown does 

slack, 
Bespotted as with shieldes of red and 

blacke, 95 

It sweepeth all the land behind him farre. 
And of three furlongs does but litle lacke; 
And at the point two stinges in fixed arre. 
Both deadly sharp, that sharpest Steele 

exceeden farre. 



xn 

But stinges and sharpest Steele did far 

exceed 100 

The sharpnesse of his cruel rending clawes: 
Dead was it sure, as sure as death in 

deed. 
What ever thing does touch his ravenous 

pawes. 
Or what within his reach he ever drawes. 
But his most hideous head my tongue 

to tell 105 

Does tremble; for his deepe devouring 

jawes 
Wyde gaped, like the griesly mouth of hell. 
Through which into his darke abysse all 

ravin fell. 

XIII 

And, that more wondrous was, in either 

jaw 
Three ranckes of yron teeth enraunged 

were, no 

In which yett trickling blood and gob- 

bets*" raw 
Of late devoured bodies did appeare. 
That sight thereof bredd cold congealed 

f eare : 
Which to increase, and all atonce to kill, 
A cloud of smoothering smoke and sul- 

phure seare^ 115 

Out of his stinking gorge forth steemed 

still. 
That all the ayre about with smoke and 

stench did fill. 



XIV 

His blazing eyes, like two bright shining 

shieldes. 
Did burne ^\'ith wrath, and sparkled Uv- 

ingfyre; 

■" coils. ' pieces. ' searing. 



6o 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



As two broad beacons, sett in open fieldes, 
Send forth their flames far off to every 
shyre, 121 

And warning give that enimies consp5n*e 
With fire and sword the region to invade: 
So flam'd his eyne with rage and rancor- 
ous yre; 
But far within, as in a hollow glade, 125 
Those glaring lampes were sett that made 
a dreadfull shade, 

XV 

So dreadfully he towardes him did pas, 
Forelifting up a-loft his speckled brest. 
And often bounding on the brused gras. 
As for great joyance of his newcome 

guest. 130 

Eftsoones he gan advaunce his haughty 

crest. 
As chauffed^ bore his bristles doth up- 

reare ; 
And shoke his scales to battaile ready 

drest. 
That made the Redcrosse Knight nigh 

quake for feare. 
As bidding bold defyaunce to his foeman 

neare. 135 

XVI 

The knight gan fayrely couch his steady 

speare. 
And fiersely ran at him with rigorous 

might: 
The pointed Steele, arriving rudely theare,^ 
His harder hyde would nether perce nor 

bight, 
But, glauncing by, foorth passed forward 

right. 140 

Yet sore amoved with so puissaunt push, 
The wrathfull beast about him turned 

light. 
And him so rudely, passing by, did brush 
With his long tayle, that horse and man to 

ground did rush. 

XVII 

Both horse and man up lightly rose 
againe, 14s 

And fresh encounter towardes him addrest; 

But th' ydle stroke yet backe recoyld in 
vaine. 

And found no place his deadly point to 
rest. 



1 angry. 



2 there. 



Exceeding rage enflam'd the furious beast, 
To be avenged of so great despight; 150 
For never felt his imperceable^ brest 
So wondrous force from hand of living 

wight; 
Yet had he prov'd the powre of many a 

puissant knight. 

XVIII 

Then, with his waving wings displayed 

wyde. 
Himself e up high he lifted from the 

ground, 155 

And with strong flight did forcibly divyde 
The yielding ay re, which nigh too feeble 

found 
Her flitting parts, and element unsound. 
To beare so great a weight: he, cutting 

way 
With his broad sayles, about him soared 

round; 160 

At last, low stouping with unweldy sway, 
Snatcht up both horse and man, to beare 

them quite away. 

XIX 

Long he them bore above the subject 

plaine. 
So far as ewghen^ bow a shaft may send. 
Till struggling strong did him at last con- 

straine 165 

To let them downe before his flightes end : 
As hagard hauke, presuming to contend 
With hardy fowle, above his hable might, 
His wearie pounces^ all in vaine doth 

spend 
To trusse^ the pray too hea\'y for his 

fhght ; 1 70 

Which, comming down to ground, does 

free it selfe by fight. 

XX 

He so disseized of his gryping grosse. 
The knight his thrillant*^ speare againe 

assayd 
In his bras-plated body to embosse, 
And three mens strength unto the stroake 

he layd; 175 

Wherewith the stiffe beame quaked, as 

affrayd,^ 



' impenetrable. 
• hold. 



*yew. 
' piercing. 



5 eflforts, struggles. 
8 terrified. 



SPENSER 



6i 



And glauncing from his scaly necke did 

glyde 
Close under his left wing, then broad dis- 

playd: 
The percing Steele there wrought a wound 

full wyde, 
That with the uncouth^ smart the monster 

lowdly cryde. i8o 

XXI 

He cryde, as raging seas are wont to rore 
When wintry storme his wrathful wreck 

does threat; 
The rolling billowes beate the ragged 

shore, 
As they the earth would shoulder from 

her seat; 
And greedy gulfe does gape, as he would 

eat 185 

His neighbour element in his revenge: 
Then gin the blustring brethren boldly 

threat 
To move the world from off his stedfast 

henge,^ 
And boystrous battaile make, each other 

to avenge. 

XXII 

The steely head stuck fast still in his 

flesh, 190 

Till with his cruell clawes he snatcht the 

wood. 
And quite a sunder broke. Forth flowed 

fresh 
A gushing river of blacke gory blood, 
That drowned all the land whereon he 

stood: 
The streame thereof would drive a water- 
mill. 195 
Trebly augmented was his furious mood 
With bitter sence of his deepe rooted ill. 
That flames of fire he threw forth from 
his large nosethril.^ 

XXIII 

His hideous tayle then hurled he about, 
And there^\^th all enwrapt the nimble 

thyes 200 

Of his froth-fomy steed, whose courage 

stout 
Striving to loose the knott that fast him 

tyes, 

• strange. 

' hinge; but here meaning base, or foundation. 

» nostrils. 



Himselfe in streighter bandes too rash 

imply es,'* 
That to the ground he is perforce con- 

straynd 
To throw his ryder; who can quickly ryse 
From off the earth, with durty blood dis- 



taynd,^ 



206 

For that reprochfull fall right fowly he 
disdaynd. 

XXIV 

And fercely tooke his trenchand blade in 

hand, 
With which he stroke so furious and so fell, 
That nothing seemd the puissaunce could 

withstand: 210 

Upon his crest the hardned yron fell; 
But his more hardned crest was armd so 

well, 
That deeper dint therein it would not 

make; 
Yet so extremely did the buffe him quell. 
That from thenceforth he shund the like 

to take, 215 

But, when he saw them come, he did 

them still forsake. 

XXV 

The knight was wroth to see his stroke 

beguyld. 
And smot againe with more outrageous 

might; 
But backe againe the sparcling Steele re- 

coyld, 
And left not any marke where it did 

light, 220 

As if in adamant rocke it had beene 

pight.^ 
The beast, impatient of his smarting 

wound, 
And of so fierce and forcible despight,^ 
Thought with his winges to stye^ above 

the ground; 
But his late wounded wing unserviceable 

found. 22s 

XXVT 

Then, full of griefe and anguish vehement, 
He lowdly brayd, that like was never 

heard; 
And from his wide devouring oven sent 
A flake of fire, that, flashing in his beard. 
Him all amazd, and almost made afeard: 



* involves. 



' soiled. 



'^ struck. ' anger. 



62 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



The scorching flame sore swinged^ all his 
face, 231 

And through his armour all his body seard, 
That he could not endure so cruell cace, 
But thought his armes to leave, and hel- 
met to unlace. 

XXVII 

Not that great champion of the antique 

world, 23 s 

Whom famous poetes verse so much doth 

vaunt. 
And hath for twelve huge labours high 

extold, 
So many furies and sharpe fits did haunt, 
When him the poysoned garment did en- 

chaunt, 
When centaures blood and bloody verses 

charmd, 240 

As did this knight twelve thousand 

dolours daunt, 
Whom fyrie Steele now burnt, that erst 

him armd; 
That erst him goodly armd, now most of 

all him harmd. 

XX VIII 

Faynt, wearie, sore, emboyled,^ grieved, 

brent,^ 
With heat, toyle, wounds, armes, smart, 
and inward fire, 245 

That never man such mischiefes did tor- 
ment; 
Death better were, death did he oft desire. 
But death will never come when needes re- 
quire. 
Whom so dismayd when that his foe be- 
held, 
He cast^ to suffer him no more respire,^ 250 
But gan his sturdy sterne^ about to weld. 
And him so strongly stroke, that to the 
ground him feld. 

XXIX 

It fortuned (as fayre it then befell,) 
Behynd his backe, unweeting, where he 

stood. 
Of auncient time there was a springing 

well, 255 

From which fast trickled forth a silver 

flood, 



1 singed. 
^ planned. 



2 boiled. 
' breathe. 



' burned, 
nail. 



Full of great vertues, and for med'cine 

good. 
Whylome, before that cursed dragon got 
That happy land, and all with innocent 

blood 
Defyld those sacred waves, it rightly 

hot^ 260 

The Well of Life, ne yet his^ vertues had 

forgot. 

XXX 

For unto life the dead it could restore. 
And guilt of sinfull crimes cleane wash 

away; 
Those that with sicknesse were infected 

sore 
It could recure ; and aged long decay 265 
Renew, as one were borne that very day. 
Both Silo this, and Jordan, did excell. 
And th' English Bath, and eke the German 

Span; 
Ne can Cephise, nor Hebrus, match this 

well : 
Into the same the knight back over- 

throwen fell. 270 

XXXI 

Now gan the golden Phoebus for to steepe 
His fierie face in billowes of the west. 
And his faint steedes watred in ocean 

deepe. 
Whiles from their journall labours they 

did rest, 
When that infernall monster, having kest^ 
His wearie foe into that living well, 276 
Gan high advaunce his broad discoloured 

brest 
Above his wonted pitch, with countenance 

fell. 
And clapt his yron wings, as victor he did 

dwell. 

XXXII 

Which when his pensive lady saw from 

farre, 280 

Great woe and sorrow did her soule assay,^" 
As weening that the sad end of the warre, 
And gan to highest God entirely pray 
That feared chaunce from her to turne 

away: 
With folded hands, and knees full lowly 

bent, 28s 

All night shee watcht, ne once adowne 

would lay 

1 was called. « its. 9 cast. ^ afflict. 



SPENSER 



63 



Her dainty limbs in her sad dreriment, 
But praying still did wake, and waking did 
lament. 

XXXIII 

The morrow next gan earely to appeare, 
That Titan rose to runne his daily race;29o 
But earely, ere the morrow next gan reare 
Out of the sea faire Titans deawy face. 
Up rose the gentle virgin from her place, 
And looked all about, if she might spy 
Her loved knight to move his manly pace: 
For she had great doubt of his safety, 296 
Since late she saw him fall before his 



emmy. 



XXXIV 



At last she saw where he upstarted brave 
Out of the well, wherein he drenched lay: 
As eagle, fresh out of the ocean wave, 300 
Where he hath lefte his plumes all hory 

gray. 
And deckt himselfe with fethers youthly 

gay, 

Like eyas hauke up mounts unto the 

skies. 
His newly-budded pineons to assay, 
And marveiles at himselfe stil as he flies: 
So new this new-borne knight to battell 

new did rise. 306 

XXXV 

Whom when the damned feend so fresh 

did spy 
No wonder if he wondred at the sight. 
And doubted whether his late enimy 
It were, or other new supplied knight. 310 
He now, to prove his late-renewed might. 
High brandishing his bright deaw-burning 

blade. 
Upon his crested scalp so sore did smite, 
That to the scull a yawning wound it 

made: 
The deadly dint his dulled sences all dis- 

maid. 315 

xxxvi 

I wote^ not whether the revenging Steele 
Were hardned with that holy water dew 
Wherein he fell, or sharper edge did feele. 
Or his baptized hands now greater grew. 
Or other secret vertue did ensew; 320 

Els never could the force of fleshly arme, 
Ne molten mettall, in his blood embrew;- 



ifcnow. 



' stain itself. 



For till that stownd''* could never wight 

him harme 
By subtilty, nor slight, nor might, nor 

mighty charme. 

XXX vii 

The cruell wound enraged him so sore, 325 
That loud he yelled for exceeding paine; 
As hundred ramping lions seemd to rore, 
Whom ravenous hunger did thereto con- 

straine : 
Then gan he tosse aloft his stretched 

traine. 
And therewith scourge the buxome'* aire 

so sore, 330 

That to his force to yielden it was faine; 
Ne ought his sturdy strokes might stand 

afore. 
That high trees overthrew, and rocks in 

peeces tore. 

xxxviii 

The same advauncing high above his 

head, 
With sharpe intended^ sting so rude him 

smott,*^ _ 335 

That to the earth him drove, as stricken 

dead; 
Ne living wight would have him life be- 

hott: 
The mortall sting his angry needle shott 
Quite through his shield, and in his 

shoulder seasd,^ 
Where fast it stucke, ne would thereout be 

gott: _ 340 

The .griefe thereof him wondrous sore 

diseasd, 
Ne might his rancling paine with patience 

be appeasd. 

xxxix 

But yet, more mindfuU of his honour 

deare 
Then of the grievous smart which him did 

wring, 
From loathed soile he can him lightly 

reare, _ 345 

And strove to loose the far infixed sting: 
Which when in vaine he tryde with strug- 

geUng, 



' moment. 
^ smote. 



' yielding. 



' outstretched. 
' fastened. 



64 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



Inflam'd with wrath, his raging blade he 

hefte/ 
And strooke so strongly, that the knotty 

string 
Of his huge taile he quite a sonder clefte; 
Five joints thereof he hewd, and but the 

stump him lefte. 351 

XL 

Hart cannot thinke what outrage and 

what cries, 
With fowle enfouldred^ smoake and flash- 
ing fire, 
The hell-bred beast threw forth unto the 
skies, 354 

That all was covered with darknesse dire: 
Then, fraught^ with rancour and en- 
gorged yre. 
He cast^ at once him to avenge for all. 
And, gathering up himselfe out of the mire 
With his uneven wings, did fiercely fall 
Upon his sunne-bright shield, and grypt it 
fast withall. 360 

XLI 

Much was the man encombred with his 

hold. 
In feare to lose his weapon in his paw, 
Ne wist^ yett how his talaunts^ to un- 
fold; 
Nor harder was from Cerberus greedy jaw 
To plucke a bone, then from his cruell 
claw 365 

To reave by strength the griped gage 

away : 
Thrise he assayd it from his foote to draw. 
And thrise in vaine to draw it did assay; 
It booted nought to thinke to robbe him 
of his pray. 

XLII 

Tho,'^ when he saw no power might pre- 
vaile, 370 

His trusty sword he cald to his last aid. 
Wherewith he fiersly did his foe assaile. 
And double blowes about him stoutly laid. 
That glauncing fire out of the yron plaid, 
As sparkles from the andvile use to fly, 375 
When heavy hammers on the wedge are 

swaid; 
Therewith at last he forst him to unty 
One of his grasping feete, him to defend 
thereby. 



> raised. 
^ planned. 



2 black as a thunderbolt. 
5 knew. ^ talons. 



3 filled. 
' then. 



XLIII 

The other foote, fast fixed on his shield, 
Whenas no strength nor stroks mote^ 

him constraine 380 

To loose, ne yet the warlike pledge to 

yield. 
He smott thereat with all his might and 

maine. 
That nought so wondrous puissaunce 

might sustaine: 
Upon the joint the lucky Steele did light, 
And made such way that hewd it quite 

in twaine; 385 

The paw yett missed not his minisht^ 

might. 
But hong still on the shield, as it at first 

was pight.^*^ 

XLIV 

For griefe thereof and divelish despight,^^ 
From his infernall fournace forth he 

threw 
Huge flames, that dimmed all the hevens 

light, _ 390 

Enrold in duskish smoke and brimstone 

blew; 
As burning Aetna from his boyling stew^^ 
Doth belch out flames, and rockes in 

peeces broke. 
And ragged ribs of mountaines molten 

new, 
Enwrapt in coleblacke clowds and filthy 

smoke, 395 

That al the land with stench, and heven 

with horror choke. 

XLV 

The heate whereof, and harmefull pes- 
tilence. 
So sore him noyd,^^ that forst him to re- 
tire 
A little backeward for his best defence. 
To save his body from the scorching 
fire, 400 

Which he from hellish entrailes did ex- 
pire. 
It chaunst, (Eternall God that chaunce 

did guide) 
As he recoiled backeward, in the mire 
His nigh foreweried^^ feeble feet did slide, 
And downe he fell, with dread of shame 
sore terrifide. 405 

' diminished. 



8 might. 
11 anger. 
13 annoyed. 



1" placed. 
12 hot room. 
■* wearied out. 



SPENSER 



65 



XL VI 

There grew a goodly tree him faire beside, 
Loaden with fruit and apples rosy redd, 
As they in pure vermilion had been dide, 
Whereof great vertues over all^ were 

redd;2 
For happy life to all which thereon fedd,4io 
And life eke everlasting did befall: 
Great God it planted in that blessed 

stedd^ 
With his Almighty hand, and did it call 
The Tree of Life, the crime of our first 

fathers fall. 

XLVII 

In all the world like was not to be fownd, 
Save in that soile, where all good things 

did grow, ' 416 

And freely sprong out of the fruitfull 

grownd, 
As incorrupted Nature did them sow, 
Till that dredd dragon all did overthrow. 
Another like faire tree eke grew thereby ,420 
Whereof whoso did eat, ef tsoones did know 
Both good and ill: O mournfull memory! 
That tree through one mans fault hath 

doen* us all to dy. 

XLVin 

From that first tree forth flowd, as from 

a well, 
A trickling streame of balme, most so- 

veraine 425 

And dainty deare, which on the ground 

still fell. 
And overflowed all the fertile plaine, 
As it had deawed bene with timely raine: 
Life and long health that gracious oint- 
ment gave. 
And deadly wounds could heale, and 

reare againe 430 

The sencelesse corse appointed for the 

grave. 
Into that same he fell, which did from 

death him save. 

XLIX 

For nigh thereto the ever damned beast 
Durst not approch, for he was deadly 

made, 
And al that Hfe preserved did detest; 435 
Yet he it oft adventur'd to invade. 

' everjrwhere. ' told. ' place. •■ caused. 



By this the drouping day-light gan to fade, 
And yield his rowme^ to sad succeeding 

night. 
Who with her sable mantle gan to shade 
The face of earth, and wayes of Living 

wight, 440 

And high her burning torch set up in 

heaven bright. 

» L 

When gentle Una saw the second fall 

Of her deare knight, who, weary of long 

fight 
And faint through losse of blood, moov'd 

not at all. 
But lay, as in a dreame of deepe delight, 445 
Besmeard with pretious balme, *whose 

vertuous^ might 
Did heale his woundes, and scorching 

heat alay, 
Againe she stricken was with sore affright, 
And for his safetie gan devoutly pray. 
And watch the noyous^ night, and wait 

for joyous day. 450 

LI 

The joyous day gan early to appeare ; 
And fayre Aurora from the deawy bed 
Of aged Tithone gan herselfe to reare 
With rosy cheekes, for shame as blushing 

red: 
Her golden locks for hast were loosely 

shed _ 455 

About her eares, when Una her did marke 
Clymbe to her charet, all with flowers 

spred. 
From heven high to chace the chearelesse 

darke; 
With mery note her lowd salutes the 

mounting larke. 

Ln 

Then freshly up arose the doughty 

knight, 460 

All healed of his hurts and woundes wide, 

And did himselfe to battaile ready dight;^ 

Whose early foe awaiting him beside 

To have devourd, so soone as day he spyde, 

When now he saw himselfe so freshly 

reare, 465 

As if late fight had nought him damni- 

fyde. 



' place. ' efficacious 



' grievous. * make ready. 



66 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



He woxe^ dismaid, and gan his fate to 

feare; 
Nathlesse with wonted rage he him ad- 

vaunced neare. 



LIII 

And in his first encounter, gaping wyde, 
He thought attonce^ him to have swal- 

lowd quight, 470 

And rusht upon him with outragious 

pryde; 
Who him rencountring fierce, as hauke in 

flight. 
Perforce rebutted backe. The weapon 

bright. 
Taking advantage of his open jaw. 
Ran thfough his mouth with so impor- 
tune^ might, 475 
That deepe emperst^ his darksom hollow 

maw. 
And, back retyrd,^ his life blood forth with 

all did draw. 

LIV 

So downe he fell, and forth his life did 

breath, 
That vanisht into smoke and cloudes 

swift; 
So downe he fell, that th' earth him under- 
neath 480 
Did grone, as feeble so great load to 

lift; 
So downe he fell, as an huge rocky clift. 
Whose false foundacion waves have washt 

away, 
With dreadfuU poyse® is from the mayne- 

land rift,'' 
And, rolling downe, great Neptune doth 

dismay; 485 

So downe he fell, and like an heaped 

mountaine lay. 

LV 

The knight him selfe even trembled at 

his fall. 
So huge and horrible a masse it seemd; 
And his deare Lady, that beheld it all, 
Durst not approch for dread which she 

misdeemd; 490 

But yet at last, whenas the direfull feend 



1 grew. 
■• pierced. 
6 force. 



3 impetuous, 
s withdrawn. 
' broken. 



She saw not stirre, off-shaking vaine af- 
fright 

She nigher drew, and saw that joyous 
end: 

Then God she praysd, and thankt her 
faithfull knight. 

That had atchievde so great a conquest 
by his might. 495 



PROTHALAMION 

Calme was the day, and through the trem- 
bling ayre 
Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly 

play, 
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster 

fayre: 
When I, whom sullein care, s 

Through discontent of my long fruitlesse 

stay 
In princes court, and expectation vayne 
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away, 
Like empty shaddowes, did aflict my 

brayne, 
Walkt forth to ease my payne 10 

Along the shoare of silver streaming 

Themmes; 
Whose rutty^ bancke, the which his river 

hemmes, 
Was paynted all with variable flowers. 
And all the meades adornd with daintie 

gemmes. 
Fit to decke maydens bowres, 15 

And crowne their paramours. 
Against the brydale day, which is not 

long:® 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I 

end my song. 

There, in a meadow, by the rivers side, 
A flocke of nymphes I chaunced to espy, 20 
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, 
With goodly greenish locks all loose un- 

tyde, 
As each had bene a bryde: 
And each one had a little wicker basket. 
Made of fine twigs entrayled curiously, 25 
In which they gathered flowers to fill their 

flasket; 
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously'° 
The tender stalkes on hye. 



8 rooty. 



' distant. 



>» deftly. 



SPENSER 



67 



Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, 
They gathered some; the violet pallid 

blew, 30 

The little dazie, that at evening closes. 
The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew, 
With store of vermeil roses, 
To decke their bridegromes posies 
Against the brydale day, which was not 

long: 35 

Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I 

end my song. 

With that I saw two swannes of goodly 

hewe 
Come softly swimming downe along the 

lee/ 
Two fairer birds I yet did never see : 
The snow which doth the top of Pindus 

strew 40 

Did never whiter shew, 
Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would 

be 
For love of Leda, whiter did appear: 
Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he. 
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing 

neare: 45 

So purely white they were, 
That even the gentle streame, the which 

them bare, 
Seem'd foule to them, and bad his bil- 

lowes spare 
To wet their silken feathers, least they 

might 
Soyle their f ayre plumes with water not so 

fayre, _ _ 50 

And marre their beauties bright, 
That shone as heavens light. 
Against their brydale day, which was not 

long: 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I 

end my song. 

Eftsoones the nymphes, which now had 

flowers their fill, 55 

Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, 
As they came floating on the christal flood ; 
Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed 

still. 
Their wondring eyes to fill. 
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so 

fayre, 60 

Of fowles so lovely, that they sure did 

deeme 



Them heavenly borne, or to be that same 

payre 
Which through the skie draw Venus silver 

teeme; 
For sure they did not seeme 
To be begot of any earthly seede, 65 

But rather angels or of angels breede: 
Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they 

say. 
In sweetest season, when each flower and 

weede 
The earth did fresh aray; 
So fresh they seem'd as day, 70 

Even as theif brydale day, which was not 

long: 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end 

my song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets 

drew 
Great store of flowers, the honour of the 

field, 
That to the sense did fragrant odours 

yeild, _ 75 

All which upon those goodly birds they 

threw, 
And all the waves did strew, 
That like old Peneus waters they did 

seeme. 
When downe along by pleasant Tempes 

shore, 
Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly 

they streeme, 80 

That they appeare, through lillies plen- 
teous store, 
Like a brydes chamber flore. 
Two of those nymphes, meane while, two 

garlands bound 
Of freshest flowres which in that mead 

they found. 
The which presenting all in trim array, 85 
Their snowie foreheads therewithal! they 

crownd, 
Whil'st one did sing this lay, 
Prepar'd against that day. 
Against their brydale day, which was not 

long: 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end 

my song. 90 

"Ye gentle birdes, the worlds faire orna- 
ment, 

And heavens glorie, whom this happie 
hower 



68 



niK ELIZABETH A. \ AGE 



Doth leade unto your lovers blissful! 

bower, 
Jov may you have and gentle hearts con- 
tent 
Of your loves couplenient : i).s 

And let faire \'enus, that is Queene of 

Love, 
With her heart-quelling sonne upon you 

smile, 
Whose smile, the}' say, hath vertue to 

remove 
All loves dislike, and friendships faultie 

guile 
For ever to assoile. ■ loo 

Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts 

accord. 
And blessed plentie wait upon your bord; 
And let your bed with pleasures chast 

abound, 
That fruitfuU issue may to you atTord, 
Which may your foes confound, 105 

And make your joyes redound. 
Upon yourbrydale day, which is not long: 
Sweete Themraes, run softlie, till I end 

my song." 

So ended she; and all the rest around 

To het redoubled that her undersong. 1 1 o 

Which said, their bridale daye should not 

be long. 
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour 

ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous birdes did passe 

along, 
Adowne the lee. that to them murmurde 

low. 115 

As he would speake, but that he lackt a 

tong, 
Yeat did by signes his glad atTection show. 
ISIaking his streame run slow. 
And all the foule which in his tlood did 

dwell 
Gan flock about these twaine. that did ex- 
cell l-O 
The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend^ 
The lesser starres. So they, enranged well. 
Did on those two attend. 
And their best service lend, 
Against their wedding day, which was not 

long: 1:15 

Sweete Themmes. run softly, till I end 

my song. 

1 shame. 



At length the>' all to mery London came. 
To mery London, my most kyndly nurse, 
That to me gave this lifes first native 

sourse : 
Though from another place I take my 

name, 130 

An house of auncient fame. 
There when they canie, whereas those 

bricky towres. 
The which on Themmes brode aged backe 

doe ryde, 
Where now the studious lawyers have their 

bowers. 
There whylome wont the Templer Knights 

to byde. 135 

Till they decayd through pride: 
Next whereunto there standes a stately 

place. 
Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly 

grace 
Of that great lord which therein wont to 

dwell, 
Whose want too well now feeles my 

freendles case: 140 

But ah I here fits not well 
Olde woes, but joyes to tell, 
Against the bridale daye, ^^■hich is not 

long: 
Sweete Themmes. runne softly, till I end 

my song. 

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble 

peer, 145 

Great Englands glory and the worlds wide 

wonder. 
Whose dreadfuU name late through all 

Spaine did thunder. 
And Hercules two pillors standing neere 
Did make to quake and feare. 
Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie. 
That fillest England with thy triumphes 

fame, 151 

Joy have thou of thy noble victorie. 
And endlesse happinesse of thine owne 

name 
That promiseth the same: 
That through thy prowesse and \'T[ctorious 

amies 155 

Thy country may be freed from forraine 

harmes; 
And great Elisaes glorious name may 

ring 
Through al the world, fil'd with th}- wide 

alarmes, 



SONNETEERS 



69 



Which some brave Muse may sing 
To ages following, j6o 

Upon the brydale day, which is not long: 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I 
end my song. 

From those high towers this noble lord 

issuing. 
Like radiant Hesper when his golden 

hayre 
In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fayre. 
Descended to the rivers open vewing, 166 
With a great traine ensuing. 
Above the rest were goodly to bee scene 
Two gentle knights of lovely face and 

feature. 
Beseeming well the bower of anie queene, 
With gifts of wit and ornaments of na- 
ture, 171 
Fit for so goodly stature: 
That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in 

. sight. 
Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens 

bright. 
They two, forth pacing to the rivers side, 
Received those two faire brides, their loves 

delight, 176 

Which, at th' appointed tyde, 
Each one did make his bryde, 
Against their brydale day, which is not 

long: 
Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end 

my song. 180 



ELIZABETHAN SONNETEERS 

SIR THOMAS WYATT (1503?-1542) 

THE LOVER COMPARETH HIS 
STATE TO A SHIP IN PERILOUS 
STORM TOSSED ON THE SEA 

My galley, charged with forgetfulness, 
Thorough sharp seas, in winter nights 

doth pass, 
'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine 

enemiy, alas, 
That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; 
And every oar, a thought in readiness, 5 
As though that death were light in such a 

case; 
An endless wind doth tear the sail apace 
Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness; 



A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain, 

Hath done the wearied cords great hin- 
derance; 10 

Wreathed with error and eke with igno- 
rance, 

The stars be hid that led me to this pain; 
Drowned is Reason, that should me 

comfort; 
And I remain, despairing of the port. 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF 
SURREY (1517?-1547) 

DESCRIPTION OF SPRING, WHERE- 
IN EACH THING RENEWS, SAVE 
ONLY THE LOVER 

The soote^ season that bud and bloom 

forth brings, 
With green hath clad the hill and eke the 

vale; 
The nightingale with feathers new she 

sings; 
The turtle to her make^ hath told her tale : 
Summer is come, for every spray now 

springs; 5 

The hart hath hung his old head on the 

pale; 
The buck in brake his winter coat he 

flings; 
The fishes flete^ with new repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she slings; 
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; 
The busy bee her honey now she mings."* n 
Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale: 
And thus I see among these pleasant 

things 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow 

springs ! 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) 
Fro7n ASTROPHEL AND STELLA 



Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love 

to show, 
That she, dear she, might take some 

pleasure of my pain, — 



' sweet. 
' float. 



'mate. 
« mixes. 



70 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



Pleasure might cause her read, reading 
might make her know, 

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace 
obtain, — 

I sought fit words to paint the blackest 
face of woe, S 

Studying inventions fine, her wits to enter- 
tain. 

Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence 
would flow 

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my 
sunburned brain. 

But words came halting forth, wanting 
Invention's stay; 

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame 
Study's blows; lo 

And others' feet still seemed but strangers 
in my way. 

Thus, great with child to speak, and help- 
less in my throes, 
Biting my truant pen, beating myself 

for spite; 
"Fool," said my Muse to me, " look in 
thy heart, and write! " 

XXXI 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou 

climb 'st the skies! 
How silently, and with how wan a 

face! 
What, may it be that even in heavenly 

place 
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted 

eyes 5 

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's 

case; 
I read it in thy looks: thy languished 

grace 
To me, that feel the like, thy state de- 
scries. 
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell 

me 
Is constant love deemed there but want of 

wit? lo 

Are beauties there as proud as here they 

be? 
Do they above love to be loved, and 

yet 
Those lovers scorn whom that love 

doth possess? 
Do they call virtue there ungrateful- 
ness? 



XXXIX 

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of 
peace. 

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of 
woe. 

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's re- 
lease, 

Th' indifferent judge between the high and 
low; 

With shield of proof shield me from out 
the prease^ 5 

Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth 
throw: 

make in me those civil wars to cease; 

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest 

bed, 
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of 

light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head : n 

And if these things, as being thine in 

right. 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt 

in me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image 

see. 

XLI 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my 

lance 
Guided so well that I obtained the prize, 
Both by the judgment of the English 

eyes 
And of some sent from that sweet enemy 

France ; 
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship 

advance, 5 

Town folks my strength; a daintier judge 

applies 
His praise to sleight which from good use 

doth rise; 
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; 
Others, because of both sides I do take 
My blood from them who did excel in 

this, 10 

Think Nature me a man-at-arms did 

make. 
How far they shot awry! the true cause 

is, 
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly 

face 
Sent forth the beams which made so 

fair my race. 

' press, throng. 



SONNETEERS 



71 



EDMUND SPENSER (1562?-1599) 
From AMORETTI 

XXIV 

When I behold that beauty's wonderment, 
And rare perfection of each goodly part, 
Of nature's skill the only complement, 
I honor and admire the Maker's art. 
But when I feel the bitter, baleful smart 5 
Which her fair eyes unwares do work in 

me, 
That death out of their shiny beams do 

dart, 
I think that I a new Pandora see: 
Whom all the gods in council did agree 
Into this sinful world from heaven to send, 
That she to wicked men a scourge should 

be, II 

For all their faults with which they did 

offend. 
But since ye are my scourge, I will 

intreat 
That for my faults ye will me gently 

beat. 

XXXIV 

Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide 
By conduct of some star doth make her 

way, 
Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty 

guide, 
Out of her course doth wander far astray; 
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright 
ray _ 5 

Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, 
Do wander now in darkness and dismay, 
Through hidden perils round about me 

placed. 
Yet hope I well, that when this storm is 

past, 
My Helice, the lodestar of my life, 10 

Will shine again, and look on me at last, 
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief ; 
Till then I wander careful, comfort- 
less, 
In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness. 

LXIII 

After long storms and tempests' sad assay. 
Which hardly I endured heretofore. 
In dread of death, and dangerous dis- 
may, 



With which my silly bark was tossed sore, 
I do at length descry the happy shore, 5 
In which I hope ere long for to arrive : 
Fair soil it seems from far, and fraught 

with store 
Of all that dear and dainty is alive. 
Most happy he that can at last achieve 
The joyous safety of so sweet a rest; 10 

Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive 
Remembrance of all pains which him op- 
pressed. 
All pains are nothing in respect of this, 
All sorrows short that gain eternal 
bliss. 

LXX 

Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty 

king, 
In whose coat-armor richly are displayed 
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do 

spring. 
In goodly colors gloriously arrayed; 
Go to my love, where she is careless laid, 5 
Yet in her winter's bower not well awake; 
Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed, 
Unless she do him by the forelock take; 
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make 
To wait on Love amongst his lovely 

crew; 10 

Where everyone that misseth then her 

make^ 
Shall be by him amerced^ with penance 

due. 
Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst 

it is prime; 
For none can call again the passed 

time. 

LXXV 

One day I wrote her name upon the 

strand, 
But came the waves and washed it away; 
Again I wrote it with a second hand. 
But came the tide and made my pains 

his prey. 
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain 
assay 5 

A mortal thing so to immortalize: 
For I myself shall like to this decay. 
And eke my name be wiped out like- 
wise." 
"Not so," quoth I, "let baser things 
devise 

' mate. ' punished. 



72 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



To die in dust, but you shall live by 

fame: lo 

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize^ 

And in the heavens write your glorious 

name. 

Where, whenas death shall all the world 

subdue. 
Our love shall live, and later life 
renew." 

LXXIX 

•Men call you fair, and you do credit it. 
For that yourself ye daily such do see; 
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit 
And virtuous mind, is much more praised 

of me: 
For ail the rest, however fair it be, 5 

Shall turn to nought and lose that glorious 

hue; 
But only that is permanent and free 
From frail corruption that doth flesh ensue. 
That is true beauty; that doth argue you 
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; 10 
Derived from that fair Spirit from whom 

all true 
And perfect beauty did at first proceed: 
He only fair, and what he fair hath 

made; 
All other fair, like flowers, untimely 

fade. 

SAMUEL DANIEL (1562-1619) 

CARE-CHARMER SLEEP 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable 

Night, 
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: 
Relieve my languish, and restore the light; 
With dark forgetting of my care, return! 
And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured 
youth: 6 

Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn. 
Without the torment of the night's un- 
truth. 
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, 
To model forth the passions of the morrow; 
Never let rising sun approve you liars, 1 1 
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. 
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in 

vain; 
And never wake to feel the day's dis- 
dain. 



MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631) 
SINCE THERE'S NO HELP 

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and 

part! 
Nay, I have done, you get no more of 

me; 
And I am glad, yea, glad, with all my 

heart. 
That thus so cleanly I myself can free. 
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our 

vows ; 5 

And when we meet at any time again, • 
Be it not seen in either of our brows, 
That we one jot of former love retain. 
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest 

breath, 
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless 

lies; 10 

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of 

death. 
And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — 
Now, if thou wouldst, when all have 

given him over. 
From death to hfe thou might'st him 

yet recover! 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) 

XVIII 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of 

May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a 

date; 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven 

shines, s 

And often is his gold complexion dimmed; 
And every fair^ from fair sometime de- 
clines. 
By chance or nature's changing course un- 

trimmed ; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou 

ow'st;^ 10 

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in 

his shade. 
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: 

1 beauty. ^ ownest. 



SONNETEERS 



73 



So long as men can breathe or eyes can 

see, 
So long lives this and this gives life to 

thee. 

xxix^ 

When, in disgracje with fortune and men's 

eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state, 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless 

cries. 
And look upon myself and curse my fate. 
Wishing me like to one more rich in 

hope, _ _ S 

Featured like him, like him with friends 

possessed, 
Desiring this man's art and that man's 

scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- 
spising, _ 
Haply I think on thee, and then my 

state, lo 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's 

gate; 
For thy sweet love remembered such 

wealth brings 
That then I scorn to change my state 

with kings. 

XXX 

When to the sessions of sweet silent 

thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 

waste : 
, Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 5 
For precious friends hid in death's date- 
less night. 
And weep afresh love's long-since can- 
celled woe. 
And moan the expense^ of many a vanished 

sight: 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 10 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
But if the while I think on thee, dear 

friend. 
All losses are restored and sorrows end. 



XXXIII 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign 

eye. 
Kissing with golden face the meadows 

green. 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly al- 
chemy, 
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 5 
With ugly rack" on his celestial face, 
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: 
Even so my sun one early morn did shine 
With all-triumphant splendor on my 

brow; 10 

But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; 
The region^ cloud hath masked him from 

me now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit dis- 

daineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain, when 

heaven's sun staineth. 

LXTV 

When I have seen by Time's fell hand de- 
faced 
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; 
When sometime lofty towers I see down- 
razed. 
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; 
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 5 
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore. 
And the firm soil win of the w^atery main. 
Increasing store with loss and loss with 

store ; 
When I have seen such interchange of 

state. 
Or state itself confounded to decay; 10 
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, 
That Time will come and take my love 
away. 
This thought is as a death, which can- 
not choose 
But weep to have that which it fears to 
lose. 

LXV 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor 

boundless sea. 
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a 

plea. 
Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 



- broken masses of flying cloud. 



' of the upper air. 



74 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



O, how shall summer's honey breath hold 
out 5 

Against the wrackful siege of batt'ring 
days, 

When rocks impregnable are not so stout. 

Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time de- 
cays? 

fearful meditation! where, alack, 

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest 
lie hid? lo 

Or what strong hand can hold his swift 
foot back? 

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? 
O, none, unless this miracle have might, 
That in black ink my love may still shine 
bright. 

LXVI 

Tired with all these, for restful death I 

cry: 
As, to behold desert a beggar born. 
And needy nothing trimmed in joUity, 
And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, 5 
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted. 
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, 
And strength by limping sway disabled, 
And art made tongue-tied by authority, 
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 10 
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,^ 
And captive good attending captain Ul. 

Tired with all these, from these would I 
be gone. 

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 

LXXI 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead 
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
Give warning to the world that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to 

dwell: 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not 5 
The hand that writ it; for I love you so 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be 

forgot 
If thinking on me then should make you 

woe. 
0, if, I say, you look upon this verse 
When I perhaps compounded am with 
clay, 10 

Do not so much as my poor name re- 
hearse. 
But let your love even with my life decay, 

1 folly. 



Lest the wise world should look into 

your moan 
And mock you with me after I am gone. 

LXXIII 

That time of year thou mayst in me be- 
hold 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do 
hang 

Upon those boughs which shake against 
the cold, 

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet 
birds sang. 

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 5 

As after sunset f adeth in the west ; 

Which by and by black night doth take 
away, 

Death's second self, that seals up all in 
rest. 

In me thou see'st the glowing of such 
fire 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 10 

As the death-bed whereon it must ex- 
pire, 

Consumed with that which it was nour- 
ished by. 
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy 

love more strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave 
ere long. 

XCVIII 

From you have I been absent in the spring. 
When proud-pied^ April dressed in all his 

trim 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, 
That hea\^ Saturn laughed and leaped 

with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet 

smell s 

Of different flowers in odor and in hue 
Could make me any summer's story tell, 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where 

they grew; 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of de- 
light, II 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you 

away, 
As \vith your shadow, I with these did 

play. 

' gorgeously variegated. 



SONG WRITERS 



75 



cvi 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights; 
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's 
best, 5 

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
1 see their antique pen would have ex- 
pressed 
Even such a beauty as you master now. 
So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all you prefiguring; lo 
And, for they looked but with divining 

eyes, 
They had not skill enough your worth to 
sing: 
For we, which now behold these present 

days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues 
to praise. 

cxvi 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove': 
O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 5 

That looks on tempests and is never 

shaken ; 
It is the star to every wand'ring bark, 
Whose, worth's unknown, although his 

height be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy Ups 

and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and 

weeks, n 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

CXLVI 

Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth. 
Thrall to these rebel powers that thee 

array. 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer 

dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 5 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. 
Eat up th}' charge? Is this thy body's end? 



Then, soul, live thou u[)on thy servant's 

loss, . 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ;io 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more: 
So shaft thou feed on Death, that feeds 

on men. 
And Death once dead, there's no more 
dying then. 

ELIZABETHAN SONG WRITERS 

ANONYMOUS 

BACK AND SIDE GO BARE, GO 
BARE 

Back and side go bare, go bare, 
Both hand and foot go cold; 

But, belly, God send thee good aie 
enough, 
Whether it be new or old. 

I cannot eat but little meat, 5 

My stomach is not good ; 
But sure I think that I can drink 

With him that wears a hood. 
Though I go bare, take ye no care, 

I am nothing a-cold; 10 

I stuff my skin so full within 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side, etc. 

I love no roast but a nutbrown toast. 

And a crab^ laid in the fire; 15 

A little bread shall do me stead. 

Much bread I not desire. 
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, 

Can hurt me if it would, 
I am so wrapt and throughly lapt 20 

Of jolly good ale and old. 
Back and side, etc. 

And Tib my wife, that as her life 

Loveth well good ale to seek. 
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see 25 

The tears run down her cheek; 
Then doth she trowl" to me the bowl 

Even as a maltworni'* should. 
And saith, "Sweetheart, I have take my 
part 

Of this jolly good ale and old." 30 

Back and side, etc. 



' apple. 



' a tippler. 



76 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



Now let them drink till they nod and 
wink, 
Even as good fellows should do; 
They shall not miss to have the bliss 

Good ale doth bring men to. 35 

And all poor souls that have scoured^ bowls, 

Or have them lustily trowled, 
God save the lives of them and their wives, 
Whether they be young or old. 

Back and side, go bare, go bare, 40 

Both hand and foot go cold; 
But, belly, God send thee good ale 
enough, 
Whether it be new or old. 



SIR EDWARD DYER (1550?-1607) 
MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS 

My mind to me a kingdom is. 
Such present joys therein I find 

That it excels all other bliss 

That earth affords or grows by kind: 

Though much I want which most would 
have, 5 

Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

No princely pomp, no wealthy store. 

No force to win the victory, 
No wily wit to salve a sore, 

No shape to feed a loving eye; 10 

To none of these I yield as thrall : 
For why? My mind doth serve for all. 

I see how plenty [surfeits] oft. 
And hasty cHmbers soon do fall; 

I see that those which are aloft 15 

Mishap doth threaten most of all; 

They get with toil, they keep with fear: 

Such cares my mind could never bear. 

Content to live, this is my stay; 

I seek no more than may suffice; 20 
I press to bear no haughty sway; 

Look, what I lack my mind supphes: 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king. 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 

Some have too much, yet still do crave ;2 5 
I little have, and seek no more. 

They are but poor, though much they 
have. 
And I am rich with Httle store: 

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; 

They lack, I leave; they pine, I live. 30 

' emptied. 



I laugh not at another's loss; 

I grudge not at another's pain; 
No worldly waves my mind can toss; 

My state at one doth still remain: 
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend; 35 

I loathe not life, nor dread my end. 

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust. 
Their wisdom by their rage of will ; 

Their treasure is their only trust; 

A cloaked craft their store of skill: 40 

But all the pleasure that I find 

Is to maintain a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease; 

My conscience clear my chief defence; 
I neither seek by bribes to please, 45 

Nor by deceit to breed offence: 
Thus do I Uve; thus will I die; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1686) 
LOVE IS DEAD 

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows 
be spread; 
For Love is dead: 
All Love is dead, infected 

With plague of deep disdain: 

Worth, as nought worth, rejected, 5 

And Faith fair scorn doth gain. 
From so ungrateful fancy, 
From such a female franzie,^ 
From them that use men thus, 
Good Lord, deliver us! 10 

Weep, neighbors, weep; do you not hear it 
said 
That Love is dead? 
His death-bed, peacock's folly; 

His winding-sheet is shame; 

His will, false-seeming holy; 15 

His sole exec'tor, blame. 

From so ungrateful fancy. 
From such a female franzie. 
From them that use men thus, 
Good Lord, deliver us! 20 

Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read. 
For Love is dead; 

Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth 
My mistress' marble heart; 

Which epitaph containeth, 25 

2 frenzy. 



SONG WRITERS 



77 



"Her eyes were once his dart." 
From so ungrateful fancy, 
From such a female franzie, 
From them that use men thus, 
Good Lord, deliver us! 



30 



Alas, I lie: rage hath this error bred; 
Love is not dead; 
Love is not dead, but sleepeth 

In her unmatched mind, 

Where she his counsel keepeth, 35 

Till due deserts she find. 

Therefore from so vile fancy, 

To call such wit a franzie, 

Who Love can temper thus,^ 

Good Lord, deliver us! ' 40 



JOHN LYLY (1554?-1606) 

CUPID AND CAMPASPE 

Cupid and my Campaspe played 

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. 

He stakes his qtiiver, bow, and arrows, 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows; 

Loses them too; then down he throws 5 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; 

With these the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple of his chin ; 

All these did my Campaspe win. 10 

At last he set^ her both his eyes; 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love, has she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas! become of me? 



SPRING'S WELCOME 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail? 
O 'tis the ra\dshed nightingale. 
"Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,"_ she cries, 
And still her woes at midnight rise. 
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear? 5 
None but the lark so shrill and clear; 
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings. 
The morn not waking till she sings. 
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat 
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note; 10 
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing, 
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring; 
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring! 

I wagered. 



GEORGE PEELE (1558?-1597?) 

CUPID'S CURSE 

CEnone. Fair and fair, and twice so fair. 
As fair as any may be; 
The fairest shepherd on our 
green, 
A love for any lady. 
Paris. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 5 
As fair as any may be; 
Thy love is fair for thee alone. 
And for no other lady. 
CEn. My love is fair, my love is gay. 

As fresh as bin^ the flowers in 
May, 10 

And of my love my roundelay. 
My merry, merry roundelay. 
Concludes with Cupid's curse, — 
"They that do change old love for 
new. 
Pray gods they change for worse! " 15 
Ambo simul.^ They that do change, etc. 
CEn. Fair and fair, etc. 
Par. Fair and fair, etc. 

Thy love is fair, etc. 
QEn. My love can pipe, my love can 
sing, 20 

My love can^ many a pretty thing, 
And of his lovely praises ring 
My merry, merry roundelays. 

Amen to Cupid's curse, — 
"They that do change," etc. 25 

Par. They that do change, etc. 
Ambo. Fair and fair, etc. 



ROBERT GREENE (1560?-1592) 
SWEET ARE THE THOUGHTS 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of con- 
tent; 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber 
spent; 
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry 
frown : 

Such sweet content, such minds, such 
sleep, such bliss, 5 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 

2 are. ^ Both together. < knows how to do. 



78 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



The homely house that harbors quiet rest; 
The cottage that affords no pride nor 

care; 
The mean that 'grees with country music 

best; 
The sweet consort^ of mirth and music's 

fare; lo 

Obscured hfe sets down a type of bhss: 
A mind content both crown and kingdom 

is. 



SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 

Mother's wag, pretty boy. 
Father's sorrow, father's joy; 
When thy father first did see 5 
Such a boy by him and me, 
He was glad, I was woe; 
Fortune changed made him so. 
When he left his pretty boy. 
Last his sorrow, first his joy. 10 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 

Streaming tears that never stint, 
Like pearl drops from a flint. 
Fell by course from his eyes, 15 
That one another's place supplies; 
Thus he grieved in every part. 
Tears of blood fell from his heart. 
When he left his pretty boy, 
Father's sorrow, father's joy. 20 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 

When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 

The wanton smiled, father wept. 
Mother cried, baby leapt; 
More he crowed, more he cried, 25 
Nature could not sorrow hide: 
He must go, he must kiss 
Child and mother, baby bless. 
For he left his pretty boy, 
Father's sorrow, father's joy. 30 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my 
knee, 

When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 

' harmony. 



THOMAS LODGE (1558?-1625) 
ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL 

Love in my bosom like a bee 

Doth suck his sweet; 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 

Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 5 
His bed amidst my tender breast; 
My kisses are his daily feast, 
And yet he robs me of my rest. 

Ah, wanton, will ye? 

And if I sleep, then percheth he, 10 

With pretty flight, 
And makes his pillow of my knee, 

The livelong night. 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; 
He music plays if so I sing; 15 

He lends me every lovely thing; 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. 

Whist,^ wanton, still ye! 

Else I with roses every day 

Will whip you hence, 20 

And bind you, when you long to play. 

For your offence. 
I'll shut my eyes to keep you in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
I'll count your power not worth a pin. 25 
Alas! what hereby shall I win 

If he gainsay me? 

What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod? 
He will repay me with annoy, 30 

Because a god. 
Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
And let thy bower my bosom be; 
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee. 
Cupid, so thou pity me, 35 

Spare not, but play thee! 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
(1564-1593) 

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO 
HIS LOVE 

Come live with me and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, 
Woods, or steepy mountains, yields. 

2 hush. 



SONG WRITERS 



79 



And we will sit upon the rocks, 5 

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies, lo 

A cap of flowers and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle: 

A gown made of the finest wool. 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
Fair lined slippers for the cold, 15 

With buckles of the purest gold; 

A belt of straw and ivy buds. 
With coral clasps and amber studs; 
And if these pleasures may thee move. 
Come live with me and be my love. 20 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delights each May morning; 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my love. 



THOMAS NASH (1567-1601) 

LITANY IN TIME OF PLAGUE 

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss, 
This world uncertain is: 
Fond^ are life's lustful joys. 
Death proves them all but toys. 
None from his darts can fly; 
I ani sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 

Rich men, trust not in wealth, 
Gold cannot buy you health; 
Physic himself must fade; 
All things to end are made; 
The plague full svait goes by; 
I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 

Beauty is but a flower. 
Which wrinkles will devour: 
Brightness falls from the air; 
Queens have died young and fair; 
Dust hath closed Helen's eye; 
I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 

' foolish. 



Strength stoops unto the grave; 
Worms feed on Hector brave; 
Swords may not fight with fate; 
Earth still holds ope her gate; 25 
Come, come, the bells do cry; 
I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 

Wit with his wantonness, 

Tasteth death's bitterness; 30 

Hell's executioner 

Hath no ears for to hear 

What vain art can reply; 

I am sick, I must die. 

Lord, have mercy on us! 35 

Haste therefore each degree 
To welcome destiny: 
Heaven is our heritage, 
Earth but a player's stage; 
Mount we unto the sky; 40 

I am sick, I must die. 
Lord, have mercy on us! 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552?-1618) 
HIS PILGRIMAGE 

Give me my scallop-shelF of quiet, 
My staff of faith to walk upon, 

My scrip of joy, immortal diet, 
My bottle of salvation. 

My gown of glory, hope's true gage f 5 

And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. 

Blood must be my body's balmer; 

No other balm will there be given ; 
Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer, 

Travelleth towards the land of heaven, 
Over the silver mountains, n 

W' here spring the nectar fountains. 
There will I kiss 
The bowl of bliss; 
And drink mine everlasting fill 15 

Upon every milken hill. 
My soul will be a-dry before; 
But, after, it will thirst no more. 

Then by that happy blissful day 

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, 20 

That have cast oft' their rags of clay. 
And walk apparelled fresh like me. 

- badge of a pilgrim. ' pledge. 



8o 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



I'll take them first, 

To quench their thirst 
And taste of nectar suckets^ 25 

At those clear wells 

Where sweetness dwells, 
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 

And when our bottles and all we 
Are filled with immortaHty, 3° 

Then the blessed paths we'll travel, 
Strowed with rubies thick as gravel; 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. 
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. 

From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall. 
Where no corrupted j^oices brawl ; 36 

No conscience molten into gold; 
No forged accuser bought or sold; 
No cause deferred, no vain-spent jour- 
ney. 
For there Christ is the King's Attorney, 40 
Who pleads for all, without degrees, 
And he hath angels but no fees. 

And when the grand twelve million jury 
Of our sins, with direful fury, 
Against our souls black verdicts give, _ 45 
Christ pleads his death; and then we live. 

Be Thou my speaker, taintless Pleader! 
Unblotted Lawyer! true Proceeder! 
Thou giv'st salvation, even for alms, 
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. 50 

And this is mine eternal plea 
To Him that made heaven and earth and 

sea: 
That, since my flesh must die so soon, 
And want a head to dine next noon, 
Just at the stroke, when my veins start 

and spread, 55 

Set on my soul an everlasting head! 

Then am I ready, like a palmer fit. 
To tread those blest paths, which before I 
writ. 



THE CONCLUSION 

Even such is time, that takes in trust 
Our youth, our joys, our all we have. 

And pays us but with earth and dust; 
Who in the dark and silent grave. 



When we have wandered all our ways, 5 
Shuts up the story of our days: 
But from this earth, this grave, this dust, 
My God shall raise me up, I trust. 



ROBERT SOUTHWELL (1561?-1596) 

THE BURNING BABE 

As I in hoary winter's night stood shiver- 
ing in the snow. 
Surprised I was with sudden heat which 

made my heart to glow; 
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what 

fire was near, 
A pretty babe, all burning bright, did in 

the air appear, 
Who, scorched with excessive heat, such 

floods of tears did shed, s 

As though his floods should quench his 

flames which with his tears were fed; 
"Alas!" quoth he, "but newly born in 

fiery heats I fry. 
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or 

feel my fire but I ! 
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel, 

wounding thorns; 
Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the 

ashes, shame and scorns; 10 

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy 

blows the coals; 
The metal in this furnace wrought are 

men's defiled souls; 
For which, as now on fire I am to work 

them to their good, 
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in 

my blood." 
With this he vanished out of sight, and 

swiftly shrunk away, 15 

And straight I called unto mind that it 

was Christmas-day. 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) 
SONGS FROM THE PLAYS 

From Love's Labor's Lost 

When icicles hang by the wall, 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 
And Tom bears logs into the hall. 

And milk comes frozen home in pail, 



SONG WRITERS 



When blood is nipped and ways be foul, 5 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

Tu-whit, to- who, 

A merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keeP the pot. 

When all aloud the wind doth blow, 10 
And coughing drowns the parson's 

saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw, 
When roasted crabs- hiss in the bowl, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 15 

Tu-whit, to- who, 

A merry note. 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

From Two Gentlemen of Verona 

Who is Silvia? what is she. 

That all our swains commend her? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she; 

The heaven such grace did lend her, 

That she might admired be. 5 

Is she kind as she is fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love doth to her eyes repair 

To help him of his blindness. 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 10 

Then to Silvia let us sing 

That Silvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling; 
To her let us garlands bring. 15 

From A Midsummer Night's Dream 

Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 

Over park, over pale. 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 

I do wander everywhere, 5 

Swifter than the moon's sphere; 

And I serve the fairy Queen, 

To dew her orbs upon the green. 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be; 

In their gold coats spots you see: 10 

Those be rubies, fairy favors, 

In those freckles live their savors. 

I must go seek some dewdrops here, 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 

' cool by stirring. - apples. 



From The Merchant of Venice 

Tdl me where is fancy'^ bred, 
Or in the heart or in the head? 
How begot, how nourished? 
Reply, reply. 

It is engendered in the eyes, 
With gazing fed; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies. 

Let us all ring fancy's knell; 

I'll begin it, — Ding-dong, bell. 

Ding, dong, bell. 



From As You Like It 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me. 
And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun. 
Seeking the food he eats, 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 



15 



Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 5 

Although thy breath be rude. 

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green 

holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving 
mere folly : 
Then, heigh ho, the holly! 
This life is most jolly. 10 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky! 
That dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot; 

^ love. 



82 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



Though thou the waters warp/ 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remembered not. 

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! etc. 



15 



It was a lover and his lass 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 
That o'er the green corn-field did pass 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring 
time, 
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 5 
Sweet lovers love the spring. 

Between the acres of the rye, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
These pretty country folks would lie. 

In spring time, etc. 10 

This carol they began that hour. 
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 

How that life was but a flower 
In spring time, etc. 

And therefore take the present time, 15 
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 

For love is crowned with the prime 
In spring time, etc. 

From Twelfth Night 

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O, stay and hear, your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high and low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting. 
Journeys end in lovers meeting, 5 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure: 
In delay there lies no plenty; 10 

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

From Measure for Measure 

Take, O, take those lips away, 
That so sweetly were forsworn; 

And those eyes, the break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn: 

But my kisses bring again, bring again; 5 

Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in 
vain. 

1 transform. 



From Antony and Cleopatra 

Come, thou monarch of the vine, 
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!^ 
In thy vats our cares be drowned, 
With thy grapes our hairs be crowned ! 
Cup us, till the world go round, 5 

Cup us, till the world go round! 

From Cymbeline 

Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds at water at those springs 

On chaliced^ flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 5 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty is, 

My lady sweet, arise! 
Arise, arise! 



Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done. 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: 

Golden lads and girls all must, 5 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great; 

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 
Care no more to clothe and eat; 

To thee the reed is as the oak: 10 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash. 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;'* 

Fear not slander, censure rash; 15 

Thou hast finished joy and moan: 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciser harm thee! 

Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 20 

Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 

Nothing ill come near thee! 
Quiet consummation have; 
And renowned be thy grave ! 

From The Tempest 
Ariel's Songs 

Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands; 
Curtsied when you have, and kissed 

The wild waves whist,'' 

2 eyes. ^ cup-shaped. * thunderbolt. ' hushed. 



SONG WRITERS 



83 



Foot it featly' here and there, 
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
Hark, hark! 

Bow-wow. 
The watch-dogs bark: 

Bow-wow. 
Hark, hark! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. 



Full fathom five thy father lies: 
Of his bones are coral made; 

Those are pearls that were his eyes; 
Nothing of him that doth fade 

But doth suffer a sea-change 5 

Into something rich and strange. 

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 

Ding-dong ! 

Hark! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, 
bell! 



Where the bee sucks, there suck I; 

In a cowslip's bell I lie; 

There I couch when owls do cry; 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After summer merrily. 5 

Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the 
bough. 

ANONYMOUS 

HEY NONNY NO! 

Hey nonny no! 
Men are fools that wish to die! 
Is't not fine to dance and sing 
When the bells of death do ring? 
Is't not fine to swim in wine, 5 

And turn upon the toe, 
And sing hey nonny no, 
When the winds blow and the seas flow? 

Hey nonny no! 

THOMAS CAMPION (1567-1620) 

OF CORINNA'S SINGING 

When to her lute Corinna sings, 
Her voice re\'ives the leaden strings. 
And doth in highest notes appear 
As any challenged echo clear; 

' neatly. 



But when she doth of mourning speak, 5 

E'en with her sighs the strings do break. 

And as her lute doth live or die, 

Led by her passion, so must I : 

For when of pleasure she doth sing. 

My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring ; i o 

But if she doth of sorrow speak, 

E'en from my heart the strings do break. 

WHEN THOU MUST HOME 

When thou must home to shades of under- 
ground. 
And there arrived, a new admired guest. 
The beauteous spirits do engirt thee 

round. 
White lope, blithe Helen, and the rest, 
To hear the stories of thy finished love 5 
From that smooth tongue whose music 
hell can move; 

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting de- 
lights. 

Of masques and revels which sweet youth 
did make. 

Of journeys and great challenges of 
knights. 

And all these triumphs for thy beauty's 
sake; 10 

When thou hast told these honors done to 
thee, 

Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder 
me. 

COME, CHEERFUL DAY 

Come, cheerful day, part of my life to 
me; 
For while thou view'st me with thy 
fading light, 
Part of my life doth still depart with thee, 
And I still onward haste to my last 
night. 
Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly : 5 
So every day we live a day we die. 

But O ye nights, ordained for barren 
rest, 
How are my days deprived of life in you 
When hea\y sleep my soul hath dispossest, 
By feigned death life sweetly to re- 
new! 10 
Part of my life in that, you life deny: 
So every day we live, a day we die. 



84 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



NOW WINTER NIGHTS ENLARGE 

Now winter nights enlarge 

The number of their hours; 

And clouds their storms discharge 

Upon the airy towers. 

Let now the chimneys blaze, 5 

And cups o'erflow with wine, 

Let well-tuned words amaze 

With harmony divine. 

Now yellow waxen lights 

Shall wait on honey love; lo 

While youthful revels, masques, and 

courtly sights. 
Sleep's leaden spells remove. 

This time doth well dispense 

With lovers' long discourse; 

Much speech hath some defence, 15 

Though beauty no remorse. 

All do not all things well : 

Some measures comely tread, 

Some knotted riddles tell. 

Some poems smoothly read, 20 

The suinmer hath his joys. 

And winter his delights; 

Though love and all his pleasures are but 

toys, 
They shorten tedious nights. 



CHERRY-RIPE 

There is a garden in her face 

Where roses and white lilies grow; 
A heavenly paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: 
There cherries grow, which none may 
buy 5 

Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row, 

Which when her lovely laughter shows, 9 

They look like rosebuds filled with snow; 

Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy 

Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 15 
Ail that attempt, with eye or hand. 
Those sacred cherries to come nigh 
Till " Cherry-ripe " themselves do cry. 



CHANCE AND CHANGE 

What if a day, or a month, or a year. 
Crown thy delights, with a thousand 
sweet contentings? 

Cannot a chance of a night or an hour 
Cross thy desires with as many sad tor- 
men tings? 
Fortune, honor, beauty, youth, 5 

Are but blossoms dying; 
Wanton pleasure, doting love, 

Are but shadows flying; 
All our joys are but toys, 

Idle thoughts deceiving; 10 

None have power of an hour 

In their life's bereaving. 

Earth's but a point to the world, and a 
man 
Is but a point to the world's compared 
centre; 14 

Shall then a point of a point be so vain 
As to triumph in a silly point's adventure? 
All is hazard that we have, 

There is nothing biding; 
Days of pleasure are like streams 

Through fair meadows gliding. 20 

Weal and woe. Time doth go. 

Time is never turning: 
Secret fates guide our states. 

Both in mirth and mourning. 



THOMAS DEKKER (1572?-/;. 1632) 

O SWEET CONTENT 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum- 
bers? 

O sweet content! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? 

punishment! 
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 
To add to golden numbers golden num- 
bers? 6 
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! 

Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 

Honest labor bears a lovely face. 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 

Canst drink the waters of the crisped^ 
spring? II 

sweet content! 

1 rippling. 



SONG WRITERS 



8S 



Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in 
thine own tears? 
O punishment! 
Then he that patiently want's burden 
bears 15 

No burden bears, but is a king, a king! 
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet con- 
tent! 
Work apace, apace, apace, apace; 
Honest labor bears a lovely face. 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny 
nonny! 

LULLABY 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 
Smiles awake you when you rise; 
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby: 
Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 5 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you ; 

You are care, and care must keep you; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby: 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 10 

MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631) 

AGINCOURT 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance,^ 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry; 
But putting to the main, 5 

At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort. 

Furnished in warlike sort, 10 

Marcheth towards Agincourt 

Li happy hour; 
Skirmishing, day by day, 
With those that stopped his way, 
Where the French general lay 15 

With all his power. 

Which,- in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride. 
His ransom to provide 

To the King sending; 20 

1 raise. • the French general. 



Which^ he neglects the while. 
As from a nation vUe, 
Yet with an angry smile, 
Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men, 25 

Quoth our brave Henry then : 
"Though they to one be ten 

Be not amazed! 
Yet have we well begun: 
Battles so bravely won 30 

Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

"And for myself," quoth he, 
"This my full resf shall be: 
England ne'er mourn for me, 35 

Nor more esteem me. 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain; 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 40 

"Poitiers and Cressy tell, 
When most their pride did swell, 
Under our swords they fell; 

No less our skill is, 
Than when our grandsire great, 45 
Claiming the regal seat. 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French Hlies." 

The Duke of York so dread 

The eager vaward^ led; 50 

With the main,^ Henry sped 

Amongst his henchmen: 
Exeter had the rear, 
A braver man not there! 
O Lord, how hot they were 55 

On the false Frenchmen! 

They now to fight are gone: 
Armor on armor shone; 
Drum now to drum did groan, 

To hear, was wonder; 60 

That,' with the cries they make, 
The very earth did shake; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake. 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 65 

O noble Erpingham, 



' the command to send a ransom. 
^ advance guard. " main host. 



* resolution. 
' so that. 



86 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



Which didst the signal aim 

To our hid forces; 
When, from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly. 
The English archery 

Stuck the French horses, 

With Spanish yew so strong. 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung. 

Piercing the weather; 
None from his fellow starts. 
But, playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts. 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbows drew. 
And on the French they flew. 

Not one was tardy: 
Arms were from shoulders sent. 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went: 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble King, 
His broad sword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding,^ 

As to o'erwhelm it; 
And many a deep wound lent. 
His arms with blood besprent,^ 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Gloucester, that duke so good. 
Next of the royal blood. 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother, 
Clarence, in steel so bright; 
Though but a maiden knight. 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another. 



70 



75 



80 



85 



90 



95 



Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray; 



105 



* strike. 



2 besprinkled. 



Which fame did not delay 115 

To England to carry. 
O when shall English men 
With such acts fill a pen? 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 120 



BEN JONSON (1573?-1637) 

HYMN TO DIANA 

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, 

Now the sun is laid to sleep. 
Seated in thy silver chair 

State in wonted manner keep: 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 5 

Goddess excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 
Heaven to clear when day did close: 10 
Bless us then with wished sight. 
Goddess excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart 

And thy crystal-shining quiver; 
Give unto the flying hart 15 

Space to breathe, how short soever: 
Thou that mak'st a day of night. 
Goddess excellently bright. 



SONG TO CELIA 

Drink to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 5 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honoring thee 10 

As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 

And sent'st it back to me; 14 

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee. 



SONG WRITERS 



87 



THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my lady rideth! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 5 

Unto her beauty; 
And enamored, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to run by her side, 
Through swords, through seas, whither she 
would ride. 10 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth! 

Do but look on her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth! 
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 15 
Than words that soothe her ; 
And from her arched brows such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face, 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' 
strife. 20 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow. 
Before rude hands have touched it? 

Have you marked but the fall o' the snow 
Before the soil hath smutched it? 

Have you felt the wool o' the beaver? 25 
Or swan's down ever? 

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? 
Or the nard^ i' the fire? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 

O so white, so soft, O so sweet is she ! 30 



TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, 
MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy 

name, 
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; 
While I confess thy writings to be such 
As neither man nor muse can praise too 

much. 
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But 

these ways 5 

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; 
For silliest ignorance on these may light, 
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes 

right; 

' spikenard. 



Or blind affection, which doth ne'er ad- 
vance 
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by 

chance; 10 

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 
And think to ruin, where it seemed to 

raise. 
These are, as some infamous bawd or 

whore 
Should praise a matron. What could hurt 

her more? 
But thou art proof against them, and, in- 
deed, 15 
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. 
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age, 
The applause, delight, the wonder of our 

stage. 
My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee 

by 
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 
A little further, to make thee a room : 
Thou art a monument without a tomb. 
And art alive still while thy book doth 

live, 
And we have wits to read and praise to 

give. 
That I not mix thee so my brain excuses — 
I mean with great, but disproportioned 

Muses; 26 

For if I thought my judgment were of 

years, 
I should commit^ thee surely with thy 

peers, 
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly out- 
shine, 
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty 

line. 30 

And though thou hadst small Latin and 

less Greek, 
From thence to honor thee, I would not 

seek 
For names, but call forth thundering 

iEschylus, 
Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordo\a dead, 35 
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, 
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were 

on. 
Leave thee alone for the comparison 
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty 

Rome 
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes 

come. 40 



88 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to 

show 
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
He was not of an age, but for all time! 
And all the Muses still were in their prime, 
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm. 46 
Nature herself was proud of his designs 
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines, 
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit. 
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit: 
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 51 
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not 

please. 
But antiquated and deserted lie. 
As they were not of Nature's family. 
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, 55 
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part: 
For though the poet's matter nature be, 
His art doth give the fashion; and that he^ 
Who casts'" to write a living line must 

sweat, 
(Such as thine are) and strike the second 

heat 60 

Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same 
(And himself with it) that he thinks to 

frame. 
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; 
For a good poet's made, as well as born. 
And such wert thou; look how the father's 

face 65 

Lives in his issue, even so the race 
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners 

brightly shines 
In his well turned and true filed^ lines, 
In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70 
Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
To see thee in our waters yet appear. 
And make those flights upon the banks of 

Thames, 
That so did take^ Eliza^ and our James ! 
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 75 
Advanced, and made a constellation there! 
Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with 

rage 
Or influence chide or cheer the drooping 

stage. 
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath 

mourned like night. 
And despairs day, but for thy volume's 

light. 



■ man. 

* captivate. 



2 plans. 



' polished. 

^ Queen Elizabeth. 



From A PINDARIC ODE 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make men better be; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred 

year. 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: 
A lily of a day 5 

Is fairer far in May; 
Although it fall and die that night, 
It was the plant and flower of light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see, 
And in short measures life may perfect 
be. 10 



AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY 

Weep with me all you that read 

This little story; 
And know, for whom a tear you shed 

Death's self is sorry. 
Twas a child that so did thrive 5 

In grace and feature. 
As heaven and nature seemed to strive 

Which owned the creature. 
Years he numbered scarce thirteen 

When fates turned cruel, 10 

Yet three filled zodiacs^ had he been 

The stage's jewel ; 
And did act, what now we moan, 

Old men so duly, 
As, sooth, the Parcae'^ thought him 
one, 15 

He played so truly. 
So, by error, to his fate 

They all consented. 
But viewing him since, alas, too late! 

They have repented; 20 

And have sought, to give new birth. 

In baths to steep him; 
But being so much too good for earth, 

Heaven vows to keep him. 



JOHN DONNE (1573-1631) 
GO AND CATCH A FALLING STAR 

Go and catch a falling star. 

Get with child a mandrake root, 

Tell me where all past years are, 
Or who cleft the Devil's foot; 



' years. 



' the Fates. 



SONG WRITERS 



89 



Teach me to hear mermaids singing, 5 
Or to keep off envy's stinging, 

And find 

What wind 
Serves to advance an honest mind. 

If thou be'st born to strange sights, 10 

Things invisible go see, 
Ride ten thousand days and nights 

Till Age snow white hairs on thee; 
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell mc 
All strange wonders that befell thee, 15 
And swear 
No where 
Lives a woman true and fair. 

If thou find'st one, let me know; 

Such a pilgrimage were sweet. 20 

Yet do not; I would not go. 

Though at next door we might meet. 
Though she were true when you met her. 
And last till you write your letter, 

Yet she 25 

WUl be 
False, ere I come, to two or three. 



LOVE'S DEITY 

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost 
Who died before the god of love was 
born. 
I cannot think that he who then loved 
most 
Sunk so low as to love one which did 
scorn. 
But since this god produced a destiny, 5 
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, 
I must love her that loves not me. 

Sure, they which made him god, meant not 
so much, 
Nor he in his young godhead practiced it. 
But when an even flame two hearts did 
touch, 10 

His office was indulgently to fit 
Actives to passives. Correspondency 
Only his subject was; it cannot be 
Love, till I love her who loves me. 

But every modern god wall now extend 15 
His vast prerogative as far as Jove: 

To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, 
All is the purlieu of the god of love. 



O! were we wakened by this tyranny 
To ungod this child again, it could not 
be 20 

I should love her who loves not me. 

Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, 
As though I felt the worst that love 
could do? 
Love may make me leave loving, or might 
try 
A deeper plague, to make her love me 
too; 25 

Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to 

see. 
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that 
must be. 
If she whom I love should love me. 



SWEETEST LOVE, I DO NOT GO 

Sweetest love, I do not go 

For weariness of thee. 
Nor in hope the world can show 

A fitter love for me; 

But since that I 5 

At the last must part, 'tis best 
Thus to use myself in jest. 

By feigned deaths to die. 

Yesternight the sun went hence, 

And yet is here today; 10 

He hath no desire nor sense, 
Nor half so short a way; 
Then fear not me, 

But believe that I shall make 

Speedier journeys, since I take 15 

More wings and spurs than he. 

O how feeble is man's power. 

That, if good fortune fall, 
Cannot add another hour, 

Nor a lost hour recall ; 20 

But come bad chance. 
And we join to it our strength, 
And we teach it art and length, 

Itself o'er us to advance. 

When thou sigh'st. thou sigh'st not -udnd, 
But sigh'st my soul away: 26 

When thou weep'st, unkindly kind. 
My life's blood doth decay: 
It cannot be 



90 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



That thou lovest me as thou say'st, 30 
If in thine my Hfe thou waste, 
That art the best of me. 

Let not thy divining heart 

Forethink me any ill; 
Destiny may take thy part 35 

And may thy fears fulfil. 
But think that we 
Are but turned aside to sleep: 
They who one another keep 

Alive, ne'er parted be. 40 



DEATH 

Death, be not proud, though some have 

called thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 
For those whom thou think'st thou dost 

overthrow 
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou 

kill me. 
From rest and sleep, which but thy pic- 
ture be, S 
Much pleasure, then from thee much more 

must flow; 
And soonest our best men with thee do 

go- 
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery ! 
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and 

desperate men. 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness 

dwell, 10 

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as 

well, 
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st 

thou then? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
And death shall be no more: Death, thou 

shalt die! 



FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1584-1616) 

EVEN SUCH IS MAN 

Like to the falling of a star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are. 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue. 
Or silver drops of morning dew, 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
Or bubbles which on water stood: 



Even such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in and paid to night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies. 
The spring in tombed in autumn lies; n 
The dew's dried up, the star is shot, 
The flight is past, and man forgot. 



ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

Mortality, behold and fear! 

What a change of flesh is here! 

Think how many royal bones 

Sleep within this heap of stones; 

Here they lie had realms and lands, s 

Who now want strength to stir their hands; 

Where from their pulpits sealed with dust 

They preach, "In greatness is no trust." 

Here's an acre sown indeed 

With the richest, royal'st seed 10 

That the earth did e'er suck in 

Since the first man died for sin; 

Here the bones of birth have cried, 

"Though gods they were, as men they 

died." 
Here are sands, ignoble things, 15 

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. 
Here's a world of pomp and state 
Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 



JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625) 

SWEETEST MELANCHOLY 

Hence, all you vain delights. 
As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly! 
There's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see't, 5 

But only melancholy; 

O sweetest melancholy! 

Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fastened to the ground, 10 
A tongue chained up without a sound. 
Fountain heads and pathless groves. 
Places which pale Passion loves; 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed save bats and owls. 



SONG WRITERS 



91 



A midnight bell, a parting groan, 16 

These are the sounds we feed upon. 
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy 

valley; 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely 
melancholy. 

CARE-CHARMING SLEEP 

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all 

woes. 
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud 
In gentle showers; give nothing that is 

loud 
Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet, 5 
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, 
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain 
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain ; 
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide, 
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride. 10 

SONG TO BACCHUS 

God Lyaeus, ever young, 

Ever honored, ever sung. 

Stained with blood of lusty grapes. 

In a thousand lusty shapes, 

Dance upon the mazer's^ brim, 5 

In the crimson liquor swim; 

From thy plenteous hand divine 

Let a river run with wine; 

God of youth, let this day here 

Enter neither care nor fear! 10 

JOHN WEBSTER (1580?-1625?) 

A DIRGE 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 
Since o'er shady groves they hover. 
And with leaves and flowers do cover 
The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
Call unto his funeral dole 5 

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole. 
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him 

warm, 
And, when gay tombs are robbed, sustain 

no harm; 
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to 

men, 

For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 

' cup's. 



HARK, NOW EVERYTHING IS STILL 

Hark, now everything is still. 

The screech-owl and the whistler^ shrill, 

Call upon our dame aloud. 

And bid her quickly don her shroud. 

Much you had of land and rent, — 5 

Your length in clay's now competent; 

A long war disturbed your mind, — 

Here your perfect peace is signed. 

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? 

Sin their conception, their birth weeping, 10 

Their life a general mist of error. 

Their death a hideous storm of terror. 

Strew your hair with powders sweet, 

Don clean linen, bathe your feet. 

And — the foul fiend more to check — 15 

A crucifix let bless your neck. 

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; 

End your groan, and come away. 

WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643?) 

ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF 
PEMBROKE 

Underneath this sable herse^ 
Lies the subject of all verse: 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: 
Death, ere thou hast slain another 
Fair and learn'd and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

ELIZABETHAN PROSE 

SIR THOMAS NORTH (1535?-1601?) 

THE DEATH OF C^SAR 

From THE LIFE OF JULIUS C^SAR 

The Romans inclining to Caesar's pros- 
perity, and taking the bit in the mouth, 
supposing that to be ruled by one man 
alone, it would be a good mean for them 
to take breath a little, after so many 
troubles and miseries as they had abidden 
in these civil wars, they chose him per- 
petual Dictator. This was a plain tyr- 
anny: for to this absolute power of Dic- 
tator they added this, never to be [10 
afraid to be deposed. Cicero propounded 
before the Senate that they should gixe 

- plover. ^ tomb. 



92 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



him such honors as were meet for a 
man; howbeit others afterwards added to, 
honors beyond all reason. For, men 
striving who should most honor him, they 
made him hateful and troublesome to 
themselves that most favored him, by 
reason of the unmeasurable greatness and 
honors which they gave him. There- [20 
upon it is reported that even they that 
most hated him were no less favorers and 
furtherers of his honors than they that 
most flattered him; because they might 
have greater occasions to rise, and that 
it might appear they had just cause and 
color to attempt that they did against 
him. 

And now for himself, after he had 
ended his civil wars he did so honor- [30 
ably behave himself that there was no 
fault to be found in him; and therefore, 
methinks, amongst other honors they 
gave him, he rightly deserved this, that 
they should build him a temple of clem- 
ency, to thank him for his courtesy he had 
used unto them in his victory. For he 
pardoned many of them that had borne 
arms against him, and, furthermore, did 
prefer some of them to honor and [40 
office in the commonwealth: as, amongst 
others, Cassius and Brutus, both the which 
were made Praetors. And where Pom- 
pey's images had been thrown down, he 
caused them to be set up again ; whereupon 
Cicero said then. That Caesar setting up 
Pompey's images again, he made his own 
to stand the surer. And when some of 
his friends did counsel him to have a 
guard for the safety of his person, and [50 
some also did offer themselves to serve 
him, he would never consent to it, but 
said. It was better to die once, than always 
to be afraid of death. 



But his enemies that envied his great- 
ness did not stick to find fault withal. As 
Cicero the orator, when one said, Tomor- 
row the star Lyra will rise: Yea, said he, 
at the commandment of Caesar, as if men 
were compelled to say and think by [60 
Caesar's edict. But the chiefest cause that 
made him mortally hated was the covet- 
ous desire he had to be called king: which 
first gave the people just cause, and next 



his secret enemies honest color, to bear 
him ill-will. 



The people went straight unto Marcus 
Brutus, who from his father came of the 
first Brutus, and by his mother, of the 
house of the Servilians, a noble house [70 
as any was in Rome, and was also nephew 
and son-in-law of Marcus Cato. Not- 
withstanding, the great honors and favors 
Caesar showed unto him kept him back, 
that of himself alone he did not conspire 
nor consent to depose him of his kingdom. 
For Caesar did not only save his life after 
the battle of Pharsalia when Pompey fled, 
and did at his request also save many 
more of his friends beside, but further- [80 
more he put a marvellous confidence in 
him. For he had already preferred him 
to the Praetorship for that year, and 
furthermore was appointed to be Consul 
the fourth year after that, having through 
Cagsar's friendship obtained it before 
Cassius, who likewise made suit for the 
same; and Cjesar also, as it is reported, 
said in this contention. Indeed Cassius 
hath alleged best reason, but yet shall [90 
he not be chosen before Brutus. Some one 
day accusing Brutus while he practised 
this conspiracy, Caesar would not hear of 
it, but clapping his hand on his body, told 
them, Brutus will look for this skin: 
meaning thereby that Brutus for his 
virtue deserved to rule after him, but yet 
that for ambition's sake he would not 
show himself unthankful or dishonorable. 

Now they that desired change, and [100 
wished Brutus only their prince and gover- 
nor above all other, they durst not come 
to him themselves to tell him what they 
would have him to do, but in the night 
did cast sundry papers into the Praetor's 
seat where he gave audience, and the 
most of them to this effect: Thou sleepest, 
Brutus, and art not Brutus indeed. Cas- 
sius, finding Brutus' ambition stirred up 
the more by these ambitious bills, did [no 
prick him forward, and egg him on the 
more, for a private quarrel he had con- 
ceived against Caesar, the circumstance 
whereof we have set down more at large 
in Brutus' life. Caesar also had Cassius 
in great jealousy, and suspected him 



NORTH 



93 



much; whereupon he said on a time to his 
friends, What will Cassius do, think ye? 
I like not his pale looks. Another time 
when Caesar's friends complained unto [120 
him of Antonius and Dolabella, that they 
pretended some mischief towards him, he 
answered them again, As for those fat men 
and smooth-combed heads, quoth he, 
I never reckon of them; but these pale- 
visaged and carrion lean people, I fear 
them most; meaning Brutus and Cassius. 
Certainly, destiny may easier be fore- 
seen than avoided, considering the strange 
and wonderful signs that were said [130 
to be seen before Caesar's death. For 
touching the fires in the element, and 
spirits running up and down in the night, 
and also the solitary birds to be seen at 
noondays sitting in the great market- 
place, are not all these signs perhaps worth 
the noting, in such a wonderful chance as 
happened? But Strabo the Philosopher 
writeth that divers men were seen going 
up and down in fire; and furthermore [140 
that there was a slave of the soldiers that 
did cast a marvellous burning flame out of 
his hand, insomuch as they that saw it 
thought he had been burnt, but when the 
fire was out it was found he had no hurt. 
Caesar self also doing sacrifice unto the 
gods, found that one of the beasts which 
was sacrificed had no heart ; and that was 
a strange thing in nature, how a beast 
could live without a heart. Further- [150 
more, there was a certain soothsayer that 
had given Cassar warning long time afore, 
to take heed of the day of the Ides of 
March (which is the fifteenth of the 
month), for on that day he should be in 
great danger. That day being come, 
Caesar going unto the Senate-house, and 
speaking merrily unto the soothsayer, 
told him. The Ides of March be come; So 
be they, softly answered the sooth- [160 
sayer, but yet are they not past. And 
the very day before Caesar, supping with 
Marcus Lepidus, sealed certain letters as 
he was wont to do at the board; so talk 
falling out amongst them, reasoning what 
death was best, he, preventing their 
opinions, cried out aloud, Death unlocked 
for. Then going to bed the same night 
as his manner was, and lying with his 
wife Calpurnia, all the windows and [170 



doors of his chamber flying open, the 
noise awoke him, and made him afraid 
when he saw such light; but more when 
he heard his wife Calpurnia, being fast 
asleep, weep and sigh, and put forth 
many fumbling, lamentable speeches. 
For she dreamed that Caesar was slain, 
and that she had him in her arms. Others 
also do deny that she had any such dream, 
as, amongst other, Titus Livius writ- [180 
eth that it was in this sort. The Senate 
having set upon the top of Caesar's house, 
for an ornament and setting forth of 
the same, a certain pinnacle, Calpurnia 
dreamed that she saw it broken down, and 
that she thought she lamented and wept 
for it. Insomuch that Caesar rising in 
the morning, she prayed him if it were 
possible not to go out of the doors that 
day, but to adjourn the session of [190 
the Senate until another day. Thereby 
it seemed that Caesar likewise did fear 
and suspect somewhat, because his wife 
Calpurnia until that time was never 
given to any fear or superstition; and 
then for that he saw her so troubled in 
mind with this dream she had. But much 
more afterwards, when the soothsayers, 
having sacrificed many beasts one after 
another, told him that none did like [200 
them; then he determined to send An- 
tonius to adjourn the session of the 
Senate. 



But in the meantime came Decius 
Brutus, surnamed Albinus, in whom 
Caesar put such confidence that in his last 
will and testament he had appointed him 
to be his next heir, and yet was of the 
conspiracy with Cassius and Brutus; he, 
fearing that if Caesar did adjourn the [210 
session that day the conspiracy would 
out, laughed the soothsayers to scorn 
and reproved Caesar, saying that he gave 
the Senate occasion to mislike with him, 
and that they might think he mocked 
them, considering that by his command- 
ment they were assembled, and that they 
were ready willingly to grant him all 
things, and to proclaim him king of all 
the provinces of the empire of Rome [220 
out of Italy, and that he should wear his 
diadem in all other places both by sea 



94 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



and land. And furthermore, that if any 
man should tell them from him they 
should depart for that present time, and 
return again when Calpurnia should have 
better dreams, what would his enemies 
and ill-willers say, and how could they 
like of his friend's words? And who could 
persuade them otherwise but that [230 
they would think his dominion a slavery 
unto them and tyrannical in himself? 
And yet if it be so, said he, that you 
utterly mislike of this day, it is better 
that you go yourself in person, and, 
saluting the Senate, to dismiss them till 
another time. Therewithal he took Caesar 
by the hand and led him out of his house. 
Caesar was not gone far from his house 
but a bondman, a stranger, did what [240 
he could to speak with him; and when he 
saw he was put back by the great press 
and multitude of people that followed 
him, he went straight into his house and 
put himself into Calpurnia's hands to 
be kept till Caesar came back again, telling 
her that he had great matters to impart 
unto him. And one Artemidorus also, 
born in the Isle of Gnidos, a doctor of 
rhetoric in the Greek tongue, who by [250 
means of his profession was very familiar 
with certain of Brutus' confederates, and 
therefore knew the most part of all their 
practices against Caesar, came and brought 
him a little bill written with his own hand, 
of all that he meant to tell him. He, 
marking how Caesar received all the sup- 
plications that were offered him, and that 
he gave them straight to his men that 
were about him, pressed nearer to [260 
him, and said: Caesar, read this memorial 
to yourself, and that quickly, for they be 
matters of great weight, and touch you 
nearly. Caesar took it of him but could 
never read it, though he many times 
attempted it, for the number of people 
that did salute him; but holding it still in 
his hand, keeping it to himself, went on 
withal into the Senate-house. Howbeit 
other are of opinion that it was some [270 
man else that gave him that memorial, 
and not Artemidorus, who did what he 
could all the way as he went to give it 
Caesar, but he was always repulsed by 
the people. For these things, they may 
seem to come by chance, but the place 



where the murder was prepared, and 
where the Senate were assembled, and 
where also there stood up an image of 
Pompey dedicated by himself amongst [280 
other ornaments which he gave unto the 
theatre: all these were manifest proofs 
that it was the ordinance of some god 
that made this treason to be executed, 
specially in that very place. It is also 
reported that Cassius (although other- 
wise he did favor the doctrine of Epicurus) , 
beholding the image of Pompey, before 
they entered into the action of their 
traitorous enterprise, he did softly [290 
call upon it to aid him. But the instant 
danger of the present time, taking aM'ay 
his former reason, did suddenly put him 
into a furious passion, and made him like 
a man half beside himself. 

Now Antonius, that was a faithful 
friend to Caesar, and a valiant man be- 
sides of his hands, Decius Brutus Albinus 
entertained out of the Senate-house, 
having begun a long tale of set pur- [300 
pose. So Caesar coming into the house, 
all the Senate stood up on their feet to do 
him honor. Then part of Brutus' com- 
pany and confederates stood round about 
Caesar's chair, and part of them also came 
towards him, as though they made suit 
with Metellus Cimber to call home his 
brother again from banishment; and thus 
prosecuting still their suit, they followed 
Caesar till he was set in his chair. [310 
Who, denying their petitions, and being 
offended with them one after another, 
because the more they were denied the 
more they pressed upon him, and were 
the earnester with him, Metellus, at 
length, taking his gown with both his 
hands, pulled it over his neck, which 
was the sign given the confederates to 
set upon him. Then Casca behind him 
strake him in the neck with his sword; [320 
howbeit, the wound was not great nor 
mortal, because it seemed the fear of 
such a devilish attempt did amaze him 
and take his strength from him, that he 
killed him not at the first blow. But 
Caesar turning straight unto him, caught 
hold of his sword and held it hard; and 
they both cried out, Caesar in Latin, O 
vile traitor Casca, what doest thou? And 
Casca in Greek to his brother. Brother, [330 



NORTH 



95 



help me. At the beginning of this stir 
they that were present, not knowing of 
the conspiracy, were so amazed with the 
horrible sight they saw they had no power 
to fly, neither to help him, not so much 
as once to make any outcry. They on 
the other side that had conspired his death 
compassed him in on every side with their 
swords drawn in their hands, that Caesar 
turned him nowhere but he was [340 
stricken at by some, and still had naked 
swords in his face, and was hacked and 
mangled among them as a wild beast 
taken of hunters. For it was agreed among 
them that every man should give him a 
wound, because all their parts should be in 
this murder; and then Brutus himself gave 
him one wound. Men report also that 
Caesar did still defend himself against 
the rest, running every way with his [350 
body; but when he saw Brutus, with his 
sword drawn in his hand, then he pulled 
his gown over his head and made no more 
resistance, and was driven, either casually 
or purposely, by the counsel of the con- 
spirators, against the base whereupon 
Pompey's ima'ge stood, which ran all of 
a gore-blood till he was slain. Thus it 
seemed that the image took just revenge 
of Pompey's enemy, being thrown [360 
down on the ground at his feet, and yield- 
ing up his ghost there, for the number of 
wounds he had upon him. For it is re- 
ported that he had three-and-twenty 
wounds upon his body; and divers of the 
conspirators did hurt themselves, striking 
one body with so many blows. 

When Caesar was slain the Senate 
(though Brutus stood in the midst among 
them, as though he would have said [370 
somewhat touching this fact) presently 
ran out of the house, and flying, filled all 
the city with marvellous fear and tumult. 
Insomuch as some did shut-to their doors, 
others forsook their shops and ware- 
houses, and others ran to the place to see 
what the matter was; and others also, 
that had seen it, ran home to their houses 
again. But Antonius and Lepidus, which 
were two of Caesar's chiefest friends, [380 
secretly conveying themselves away, fled 
into other men's houses and forsook their 
own. Brutus and his confederates on the 
other side, being yet hot with this murder 



they had committed, having their swords 
drawn in their hands, came all in a troop 
together out of the Senate and went into 
the market-place; not as men that made 
countenance to fly, but otherwise boldly 
holding up their heads like men of [390 
courage, and called to the people to defend 
their liberty, and stayed to speak with 
every great personage whom they met 
in their way. Of them, some followed 
this troop, and went amongst them as 
if they had been of the conspiracy, and 
falsely challenged part of the honor with 
them; amongst them was Caius Octavius 
and Lentulus Spinther. But both of them 
were afterwards put to death for their [400 
vain covetousness of honor by Antonius 
and Octavius Caesar the younger, and 
yet had no part of that honor for the 
which they were put to death, nor did 
any man believe that they were any of 
the confederates or of counsel with them. 
For they that did put them to death 
took revenge rather of the will they had 
to offend than of any fact they had com- 
mitted. [410 
The next morning Brutus and his con- 
federates came into the market-place to 
speak unto the people, who gave them 
such audience that it seemed they neither 
greatly reproved nor allowed the fact; for 
by their great silence they showed that 
they were sorry for Cesar's death, and 
also that they did reverence Brutus. 
Now the Senate granted general pardon 
for all that was past, and to pacify [420 
every man ordained besides that Caesar's 
funerals should be honored as a god, and 
estabUshed all things that he had done; 
and gave certain provinces also and con- 
venient honors unto Brutus and his con- 
federates, whereby every man thought 
all things were brought to good peace 
and quietness again. But when they 
had opened Caesar's testament and found 
a liberal legacy of money bequeathed [430 
unto every citizen of Rome, and that they 
saw his body (which was brought into 
the market-place) all bemangled with 
gashes of swords, then there was no order 
to keep the multitude and common people 
quiet, but they plucked up forms, tables 
and stools, and laid them all about the 
body, and setting them afire, burnt the 



96 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



corpse. Then when the fire was well 
kindled, they took the firebrands and [440 
went unto their houses that had slain 
Caesar, to set them afire. Others also ran 
up and down the city to see if they could 
meet with any of them, to cut them in 
pieces; howbeit they could meet with 
never a man of them, because they had 
locked themselves up safely in their 
houses. There was one of Cffisar's friends 
called Cinna, that had a marvellous strange 
and terrible dream the night be- [450 
fore. He dreamed that Csesar bade him 
to supper, and that he refused and would 
not go; then that Caesar took him by the 
hand and led him against his will. Now 
Cinna hearing at that time that they 
burnt Caesar's body in the market-place, 
notwithstanding that he feared his dream 
and had an ague on him besides, he 
went into the market-place to honor his 
funerals. When he came thither one of [460 
the mean sort asked him what his name 
was. He was straight called by his name. 
The first man told it to another, and that 
other unto another, so that it ran straight 
through them all, that he was one of them 
that murdered Caesar (for indeed one of 
the traitors to Caesar was also called 
Cinna, as himself); wherefore taking him 
for Cinna the murderer, they fell upon 
him with such fury that they presently [470 
despatched him in the market-place. This 
stir and fury made Brutus and Cassius 
more afraid than of all that was past, 
and therefore within few days after they 
departed out of Rome; and touching their 
doings afterwards, and what calamity they 
suffered till their deaths, we have written 
it at large in the life of Brutus. 

Caesar died at six-and-fifty years of age, 
and Pompey also lived not passing [480 
four years more than he. So he reaped 
no other fruit of all his reign and dominion, 
which he had so vehemently desired all 
his life and pursued with such extreme 
danger, but a vain name only, and a 
superficial glory that procured him the 
envy and hatred of his country. But his 
great prosperity and good fortune that 
favored him all his lifetime did con- 
tinue afterwards in the revenge of his [490 
death, pursuing the murderers both by 
sea and land till they had not left a man 



more to be executed of all them that were 
actors or counsellors in the conspiracy of 
his death. Furthermore, of all the chances 
that happen unto men upon the earth, 
that which came to Cassius above all 
other is most to be wondered at. For he 
being overcome in battle at the jour- 
ney of Philippi, slew himself with the [500 
same sword with the which he strake 
Caesar. Again, of signs in the element, 
the great comet which seven nights to- 
gether was seen very bright after Caesar's 
death, the eighth night after was never 
seen more. Also the brightness of the 
sun was darkened, the which all that year 
through rose very pale and shined not out, 
whereby it gave but small heat; therefore 
the air, being very cloudy and dark [510 
by the weakness of the heat that could 
not come forth, did cause the earth to 
bring forth but raw and unripe fruit, 
which rotted before it could ripe. 

But above all, the ghost that appeared 
unto Brutus showed plainly that the 
gods were offended with the murder of 
Caesar. The vision was thus. Brutus being 
ready to pass over his ariny from the 
city of Abydos to the other coast lying [520 
directly against it, slept every night (as 
his manner was) in his tent, and being 
yet awake, thinking of his affairs (for by 
report he was as careful a captain, and 
lived with as little sleep, as ever man did) , 
he thought he heard a noise at his tent 
door, and looking toward the light of the 
lamp that waxed very dim, he saw a 
horrible vision of a man of wonderful 
greatness and dreadful look, which at [530 
the first made him marvellously afraid. 
But when he saw that it did him no hurt, 
but stood by his bedside and said nothing, 
at length he asked him what he was. The 
image answered him: I am thy ill angel, 
Brutus, and thou shalt see me by the 
city of Philippi. Then Brutus replied 
again, and said: Well, I shall see thee 
then. Therewithal, the spirit presently 
vanished from him. After that time [540 
Brutus being in battle near unto the 
city of Philippi, against Antonius and 
Octavius Caesar, at the first battle he won 
the victory, and overthrowing all them 
that withstood him, he drave them into 
young Caesar's camp, which he took. The 



LYLY 



97 



second battle being at hand, this spirit 
appeared again unto him, but spake never 
a word. Thereupon Brutus, knowing he 
should die, did put himself to all hazard [550 
in battle, but yet fighting could not be 
slain. So seeing his men put to flight and 
overthrown, he ran unto a little rock 
not far off, and there setting his sword's 
point to his breast, fell upon it and slew 
himself, but yet as it is reported, with the 
help of his friend that despatched him. 



JOHN LYLY (1554?-1606) 
QUEEN ELIZABETH 

From EuPHUES and His England 

This queen being deceased, Elizabeth, 
being of the age of twenty-two years, of 
more beauty than honor, and yet of more 
honor than any earthly creature, was 
called from a prisoner to be a prince, from 
the castle to the crown, from the fear of 
losing her head, to be supreme head. 

Touching the beauty of this prince, her 
countenance, her personage, her majesty, 
I cannot think that it may be suffi- [10 
ciently commended, when it cannot be 
too much marveled at; so that I am con- 
strained to say as Praxitiles did, when he 
began to paint Venus and her son, who 
doubted whether the world could afford 
colors good enough for two such fair faces, 
and I, whether our tongue can yield words 
to blaze that beauty, the perfection 
whereof none can imagine; which seeing 
it is so, I must do like those that want [20 
a clear sight, who, being not able to dis- 
cern the sun in the sky, are enforced to 
behold it in the water. Zeuxis, having 
before him fifty fair virgins of Sparta 
whereby to draw one amiable Venus, said 
that fifty more fairer than those could not 
minister sufficient beauty to show the 
goddess of beauty; therefore, being in 
despair either by art to shadow her, or 
by imagination to comprehend her, he [30 
drew in a table a fair temple, the gates 
open, and Venus going in so as nothing 
could be perceived but her back, wherein 
he used such cunning that Apelles himself, 
seeing this work, wished that Venus would 



turn her face, saying that if it were in all 
parts agreeable to the back, he would 
become apprentice to Zeuxis, and slave to 
Venus. In the like manner fareth it with 
me, for having all the ladies in Italy, [40 
more than fifty hundred, whereby to color 
Elizabeth, I must say with Zeuxis that 
as many more will not suffice, and there- 
fore in as great an agony paint her court 
with her back towards you, for that I 
cannot by art portray her beauty, wherein, 
though I want the skill to do it as Zeuxis 
did, yet viewing it narrowly, and compar- 
ing it wisely, you all will say that if 
her face be answerable to her back, you [50 
will like my handicraft and become her 
handmaids. In the mean season, I leave 
you gazing until she turn her face, im- 
agining her to be such a one as nature 
framed, to that end that no art should 
imitate, wherein she hath proved herself 
to be exquisite, and painters to be apes. 

This beautiful mold when I beheld to 
be indued with chastity, temperance, mild- 
ness, and all other good gifts of na- [60 
ture (as hereafter shall appear), when I 
saw her to surpass all in beauty, and yet a 
virgin, to excel all in piety, and yet a 
prince, to be inferior to none in all the 
lineaments of the body, and yet superior 
to every one in all gifts of the mind, I be- 
gan thus to pray, that as she hath lived 
forty years a virgin in great majesty, so 
she may live four score years a mother 
with great joy, that as with her we have [70 
long time had peace and plenty, so by 
her we may ever have quietness and 
abundance, wishing this even from the 
bottom of a heart that wdsheth well to 
England, though feareth ill, that either 
the world may end before she die, or she 
live to see her children's children in the 
world; otherwise how tickle their state 
is that now triumph, upon what a twist 
they hang that now are in honor, [80 
they that live shall see, which I to think 
on, sigh! But God for his mercy's sake, 
Christ for his merit's sake, the Holy 
Ghost for his name's sake, grant to that 
realm comfort without any ill chance, and 
the prince they have without any other 
change, that the longer she liveth the 
sweeter she may smell, like the bird Ibis, 
that she may be triumphant in \'ictories 



98 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



like the palm tree, fruitful in her [90 
age like the vine, in all ages prosperous, to 
all men gracious, in all places glorious, 
so that there be no end of her praise until 
the end of all flesh. 

Thus did I often talk with myself, and 
wish with mine whole soul. 

Why should I talk of her sharp wit, 
excellent wisdom, exquisite learning, and 
all other quaUties of the mind, wherein she 
seemeth as far to excel those that have [100 
been accounted singular, as the learned 
have surpassed those that have been 
thought simple. 

In questioning, not inferior to Nicaulia, 
the queen of Saba, that did put so many 
hard doubts to Solomon; equal to Nicos- 
trata in the Greek tongue, who was 
thought to give precepts for the better 
perfection; more learned in the Latin 
than Amalasunta; passing Aspasia in [no 
philosophy, who taught Pericles; exceed- 
ing in judgment Themistoclea, who in- 
structed Pythagoras. Add to these qual- 
ities, those that none of these had: the 
French tongue, the Spanish, the Italian, 
not mean in every one, but excellent in 
all; readier to correct escapes in those 
languages than to be controlled; fitter to 
teach others than learn of any; more able 
to add new rules than to err in the [120 
old; insomuch as there is no ambassador 
that Cometh into her court but she is will- 
ing and able both to understand his mes- 
sage and utter her mind; not like unto the 
kings of Assyria, who answer ambassadors 
by messengers, while they themselves 
either dally in sin or snort in sleep. Her 
godly zeal to learning, with her great 
skill, hath been so manifestly approved 
that I cannot tell whether she deserve [130 
more honor for her knowledge, or admira- 
tion for her courtesy, who in great pomp 
hath twice directed her progress unto the 
universities with no less joy to the stu- 
dents than glory to her state. Where, 
after long and solemn disputations in 
law, physic, and divinity, not as one 
wearied with scholars' arguments, but 
wedded to their orations, when every 
one feared to offend in length, she [140 
in her own person, with no less praise to 
her Majesty than delight to her subjects, 
with a wise and learned conclusion, both 



gave them thanks, and put herself to 
pains. O noble pattern of a princely 
mind, not like to the kings of Persia, who 
in their progresses did nothing else but 
cut sticks to drive away the time, nor 
like the delicate lives of the Sybarites, who 
would not admit any art to be exer- [150 
cised within their city that might make 
the least noise. Her wit so sharp, that 
if I should repeat the apt answers, the 
subtle questions, the fine speeches, the 
pithy sentences, which on the sudden 
she hath uttered, they would rather breed 
admiration than credit. But such are 
the gifts that the living God hath indued 
her withal, that look in what art or lan- 
guage, wit or learning, virtue or beauty [160 
any one hath particularly excelled most, 
she only hath generally exceeded every 
one in all, insomuch that there is nothing 
to be added that either man would wish 
in a woman, or God doth give to a crea- 
ture. 

I let pass her skill in music, her knowl- 
edge in all the other sciences, whenas I 
fear lest by my simplicity I should make 
them less than they are, in seeking to [i 70 
show how great they are, unless I were 
praising her in the gallery of Olympia, 
where giving forth one word, I might 
hear seven. 

But all these graces, although they be 
to be wondered at, yet her politic gov- 
ernment, her prudent counsel, her zeal to 
religion, her clemency to those that sub- 
mit, her stoutness to those that threaten, 
so far exceed all other virtues that [180 
they are more easy to be marveled at than 
imitated. 

Two and twenty years hath she borne 
the sword with such justice, that neither 
offenders could complain of rigor, nor 
the innocent of wrong; yet so tempered 
with mercy as malefactors have been 
sometimes pardoned upon hope of grace, 
and the injured reqmted to ease their 
grief, insomuch that in the whole [190 
course of her glorious reign, it could never 
be said that either the poor were oppressed 
without remedy, or the guilty repressed 
without cause, bearing this engraven in 
her noble heart, that justice without 
mercy were extreme injury, and pity 
without equity plain partiality, and that 



LYLY 



99 



it is as great tyranny not to mitigate 
laws, as iniquity to break them. 

Her care for the flourishing of the [200 
Gospel hath well appeared, whenas neither 
the curses of the Pope (which are bless- 
ings to good people) nor the threatenings 
of kings (which are perilous to a prince) 
nor the persuasions of papists (which are 
honey to the mouth) could either fear 
her or allure her to violate the holy 
league contracted with Christ, or to 
maculate the blood of the ancient Lamb, 
which is Christ. But always constant [210 
in the true faith, she hath to the exceeding 
joy of her subjects, to the unspeakable 
comfort of her soul, to the great glory of 
God, established that religion the main- 
tenance whereof she rather seeketh to 
confirm by fortitude, than leave off for 
fear, knowing that there is nothing that 
smelleth sweeter to the Lord than a sound 
spirit, which neither the hosts of the un- 
godly nor the horror of death can [220 
either remove or move. 

This Gospel with invincible courage, 
with rare constancy, with hot zeal, she 
hath maintained in her own countries 
without change, and defended against all 
kingdoms that sought change, insomuch 
that all nations round about her, threat- 
ening alteration, shaking swords, throw- 
ing fire, menacing famine, murder, de- 
struction, desolation, she only hath [230 
stood like a lamp on the top of a hill, not 
fearing the blasts of the sharp winds, but 
trusting in His providence that rideth 
upon the wings of the four winds. Next 
foUoweth the love she beareth to her sub- 
jects, who no less tendereth them than 
the apple of her own eye, showing herself 
a mother to the afilicted, a physician to 
the sick, a sovereign and mild governess 
to all. [240 

Touching her magnanimity, her maj- 
esty, her estate royal, there was neither 
Alexander, nor Galba the Emperor, nor 
any, that might be compared with her. 

This is she that, resembling the noble 
queen of Navarre, useth the marigold for 
her flower, which at the rising of the sun 
openeth her leaves, and at the setting 



shutteth them, referring all her actions 
and endeavors to him that ruleth the [250 
sun. This is that Caesar, that first bound 
the crocodile to the palm tree, bridling 
those that sought to rein her. This is that 
good peHcan, that to feed her people 
spareth not to rend her own person. 
This is that mighty eagle, that hath 
thrown dust into the eyes of the hart 
that went about to work destruction to 
her subjects, into whose wings although 
the blind beetle would have crept, and [260 
so being carried into her nest, destroyed 
her young ones, yet hath she with the 
virtue of her feathers, consumed that fly 
in his own fraud. She hath exiled the 
swallow that sought to spoil the grass- 
hopper, and given bitter almonds to the 
ravenous wolves that endeavored to de- 
vour the silly lambs, burning even with 
the breath of her mouth like the princely 
stag, the serpents that were engen- [270 
dered by the breath of the huge elephant, 
so that now all her enemies are as whist as 
the bird Attagen, who never singeth any 
tune after she is taken, — nor they, being so 
overtaken. 

But whither do I wade, ladies, as one 
forgetting himself; thinking to sound the 
depth of her virtues with a few fathoms, 
when there is no bottom; for I know 
not how it Cometh to pass that, being [2 So 
in this labyrinth, I may sooner lose my- 
self than find the end. 

Behold, ladies, in this glass a queen, 
a woman, a virgin, in all gifts of the body, 
in all graces of the mind, in all perfection 
of either, so far to excel all men, that I 
know not whether I may think the place 
too bad for her to dwell among men. 

To talk of other things in that court 
were to bring eggs after apples, or [290 
after the setting out of the sun, to tell a 
tale of a shadow. 

But this I say, that all oflices are looked 
to with great care, that virtue is em- 
braced of all, vice hated, religion daily 
increased, manners reformed, that whoso 
seeth the place there, will think it rather 
a church for divine service than a court 
for princes' deUght. 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) 
From THE DEFENCE OF POESY 

Chaucer, undoubtedly, did excellently 
in his Troilus and Criseyde; of whom, 
truly, I know not whether to marvel 
more, either that he in that misty time 
could see so clearly, or that we in this 
clear age walk so stumblingly after him. 
Yet had he great wants, fit to be forgiven 
in so reverend antiquity. I account the 
Mirror of Magistrates meetly furnished 
of beautiful parts; and in the Earl of [lo 
Surrey's lyrics many things tasting of 
a noble birth, and worthy of a noble 
mind. The Shepherd's Calendar hath 
much poetry in his eclogues, indeed worthy 
the reading, if I be not deceived. That 
same framing of his style to an old rustic 
language I dare not allow, since neither 
Theocritus in Greek, Virgil in Latin, nor 
Sannazzaro in Italian did affect it. Be- 
sides these, I do not remember to have [20 
seen but few (to speak boldly) printed, 
that have poetical sinews in them. For 
proof whereof, let but most of the verses 
be put in prose, and then ask the mean- 
ing, and it will be found that one verse 
did but beget another, without ordering 
at the first what should be at the last; 
which becomes a confused mass of words, 
with a tinkling sound of rime, barely ac- 
companied with reason. [30 

Our tragedies and comedies not with- 
out cause cried out against, observing 
rules neither of honest civility nor of 
skilful poetry, excepting Gorboduc, — again 
I say of those that I have seen. Which 
notwithstanding as it is full of stately 
speeches and well-sounding phrases, climb- 
ing to the height of Seneca's style, and as 
full of notable morality, which it doth 
most delightfully teach, and so obtain [40 
the very end of poesy; yet in truth it 
is very defections in the circumstances, 
which grieveth me, because it might not 
remain as an exact model of all tragedies. 
For it is faulty both in place and time, 
the two necessary companions of all cor- 
poral actions. For where the stage should 
always represent but one place, and the 
uttermost time presupposed in it should 



be, both by Aristotle's precept and [50 
common reason, but one day; there is 
both many days and many places inarti- 
ficially imagined. 

But if it be so in Gorboduc, how much 
more in all the rest? where you shall 
have Asia of the one side, and Afric of 
the other, and so many other under- 
kingdoms, that the player, when he 
Cometh in, must ever begin with telling 
where he is, or else the tale will not be [60 
conceived. Now ye shall have three ladies 
walk to gather flowers, and then we must 
believe the stage to be a garden. By and 
by we hear news of shipwreck in the same 
place, and then we are to blame if we 
accept it not for a rock. Upon the back 
of that comes out a hideous monster with 
fire and smoke, and then the miserable 
beholders are bound to take it for a cave. 
While in the meantime two armies fly [70 
in, represented with four swords and 
bucklers, and then what hard heart will 
not receive it for a pitched field? 

Now of tim,e they are much more lib- 
eral. For. ordinary it is that two young 
princes fall in love; after many traverses 
she is got with child, dehvered of a fair 
boy, he is lost, groweth a man, falleth in 
love, and is ready to get another child, — 
and all this in two hours' space; which [80 
how absurd it is in sense even sense may 
imagine, and art hath taught, and all 
ancient examples justified, and at this 
day the ordinary players in Italy will not 
err in. Yet will some bring in an example 
of Eunuchus in Terence, that containeth 
matter of two days, yet far short of 
twenty years. True it is, and so was it 
to be played in two days, and so fitted to 
the time it set forth. And though [90 
Plautus have in one place done amiss, let 
us hit with him, and not miss with him. 
But they will say. How then shall we set 
forth a story which containeth both 
many places and many times? And do 
they not know that a tragedy is tied to 
the laws of poesy, and not of history; 
not bound to follow the story, but hav- 
ing liberty either to feign a quite new 
matter, or to frame the history to [100 
the most tragical conveniency? Again, 
many things may be told which cannot be 
showed, — if they know the difference be- 



SIDNEY 



twixt reporting and representing. As 
for example I may speak, though I am 
here, of Peru, and in speech digress from 
that to the description of CaHcut; but in 
action I cannot represent it without 
Pacolet's horse. And so was the manner 
the ancients took, by some Ntmtms [no 
to recount things done in former time or 
other place. 

Lastly, if they will represent a history, 
they must not, as Horace saith, begin 
ab ovo, but they must come to the prin- 
cipal point of that one action which they 
will represent. By example this will be 
best expressed. I have a story of young 
Polydorus, delivered for safety's sake, 
with great riches, by his father [120 
Priamus to Polymnestor, King of Thrace, 
in the Trojan war time. He, after some 
years, hearing the overthrow of Priamus, 
for to make the treasure his own, mur- 
dereth the child; the body of the child is 
taken up by Hecuba; she, the same day, 
findeth a sleight to be revenged most 
cruelly of the tyrant. Where now would 
one of our tragedy- writers begin, but with 
the delivery of the child? Then should [130 
he sail over into Thrace, and so spend I 
know not how many years, and travel 
numbers of places. But where doth 
Euripides? Even with the finding of the 
body, leaving the rest to be told by the 
spirit of Polydorus. This needs no further 
to be enlarged; the dullest wit may con- 
ceive it. 

But, besides these gross absurdities, 
how all their plays be neither right [140 
tragedies nor right comedies, mingling 
kings and clowns, not because the matter 
so carrieth it, but thrust in clowns by 
head and shoulders to play a part in 
majestical matters, with neither decency 
nor discretion; so as neither the admira- 
tion and commiseration, nor the right 
sportfulness, is by their mongrel tragi- 
comedy obtained. I know Apuleius did 
somewhat so, but that is a thing re- [150 
counted with space of time, not repre- 
sented in one moment: and I know the 
ancients have one or two examples of 
tragi-comedies, as Plautus hath Amphi- 
trio. But, if we mark them well, we shall 
find that they never, or very daintily, 
match hornpipes and funerals. So falleth 



it out that, having indeed no right comedy 
in that comical part of our tragedy, we 
have nothing but scurrility, unworthy [160 
of any chaste ears, or some extreme show 
of doltishness, indeed fit to lift up a loud 
laughter, and nothing else; where the 
whole tract of a comedy should be full 
of delight, as the tragedy should be still 
maintained in a well-raised admiration. 



But I have lavished out too many 
words of this play-matter. I do it, be- 
cause as they are excelling parts of poesy, 
so is there none so much used in Eng- [170 
land, and none can be more pitifully 
abused; which, like an unmannerly 
daughter, showing a bad education, caus- 
eth her mother Poesy's honesty to be 
called in question. 

Other sorts of poetry almost have we 
none, but that lyrical kind of songs and 
sonnets, which, the Lord if he gave us so 
good minds, how well it might be em- 
ployed, and with how heavenly fruits, [180 
both private and public, in singing the 
praises of the immortal beauty, the im- 
mortal goodness of that God who giveth 
us hands to write, and wdts to conceive; 
of which we might well want words, but 
never matter; of which we could turn our 
eyes to nothing, but we should ever have 
new-budding occasions. 

But truly, many of such wTitings as 
come under the banner of unresistible [190 
love, if I were a mistress would never 
persuade me they were in love; so coldly 
they apply fiery speeches, as men that 
had rather read lovers' writings, and so 
caught up certain swelling phrases — which 
hang together like a man which once told 
me the Avind was at northwest and by 
south, because he would be sure to name 
winds enough — than that in truth they 
feel those passions, which easily, as I [200 
think, may be bewrayed by that same 
forcibleness, or energia (as the Greeks 
call it), of the writer. But let this be a 
sufficient, though short note, that we 
miss the right use of the material point 
of poesy. 

****** 

But what! methinks I deserve to be 
pounded for straying from poetry to ora- 



I02 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



tory. But both have such an afiinity in 
this wordish consideration, that I [210 
think this digression will make my mean- 
ing receive the fuller understanding: which 
is not to take upon me to teach poets how 
they should do, but only, finding myself 
sick among the rest, to show some one or 
two spots of the common infection grown 
among the most part of writers; that, ac- 
knowledging ourselves somewhat a^^Ty, 
we may bend to the right use both of 
matter and manner: whereto our Ian- [220 
guage giveth us great occasion, being, 
indeed, capable of any excellent exercising 
of it. 

I know some will say it is a mingled 
language. And why not so much the 
better, taking the best of both the other? 
Another will say it wanteth grammar. 
Nay, truly, it hath that praise that it 
wanteth not grammar. For grammar it 
might have, but it needs it not; being [230 
so easy in itself, and so void of those 
cumbersome differences of cases, genders, 
moods, and tenses, which, I think, was a 
piece of the Tower of Babylon's curse, 
that a man should be put to school to 
learn his mother-tongue. But for the 
uttering sweetly and properly the con- 
ceits of the mind, which is the end of 
speech, that hath it equally with any 
other tongue in the world ; and is par- [240 
ticularly happy in compositions of two 
or three words together, near the Greek, 
far beyond the Latin, — which is one of 
the greatest beauties can be in a language. 

Now of versifying there are two sorts, 
the one ancient, the other modern. The 
ancient marked the quantity of each 
syllable, and according to that, framed 
his verse; the modern observing only 
number, with some regard of the ac- [250 
cent, the chief life of it standeth in that 
like sounding of the w^ords, which we call 
rime. Whether of these be the more ex- 
cellent, would bear many speeches; the 
ancient no doubt more fit for music, both 
words and tune observing quantity; and 
more fit lively to express divers passions, 
by the low and lofty sound of the well- 
weighed syllable. The latter likewise 
with his rime striketh a certain music [260 
to the ear; and, in fine, since it doth de- 
light, though by another way, it obtaineth 



the same purpose; there being in either, 
sweetness, and wanting in neither, maj- 
esty. Truly the English, before any 
other vulgar language I know, is fit for 
both sorts. For, for the ancient, the 
Italian is so full of vowels that it must 
ever be cumbered with eUsions; the 
Dutch so, of the other side, with con- [270 
sonants, that they cannot yield the sweet 
sliding fit for a verse. The French, in 
his whole language, hath not one word 
that hath his accent in the last syllable 
saving two, called antepenultima, and 
little more hath the Spanish; and there- 
fore very gracelessly may they use dactyls. 
The English is subject to none of these 
defects. 

Now for rime, though we do not [280 
observe quantity, yet we observe the ac- 
cent very precisely, which other languages 
either cannot do, or will not do so ab- 
solutely. That c£esura, or breathing- 
place in the midst of the verse, neither 
Italian nor Spanish have, the French and 
we never almost fail of. Lastly, even the 
very rime itself the Italian cannot put in 
the last syllable, by the French named the 
masculine rime, but still in the next [290 
to the last, which the French call the fe- 
male, or the next before that, which the 
Italians term sdrucciola. The example of 
the former is buono, suono; of the sdrucciola 
.is femina, semina. The French, of the 
other side, hath both the male, as bon, 
son, and the female, as plaise, taise; but 
the sdrucciola he hath not. Where the 
English hath all three, as due, true; 
father, rather; motion, potion; with [300 
much more which might be said, but that 
I find already the trifiingness of this 
discourse is much too much enlarged. 

So that since the ever praiseworthy 
poesy is full of virtue-breeding delight- 
fulness, and void of no gift that ought to 
be in the noble name of learning; since 
the blames laid against it are either false 
or feeble; since the cause why it is not 
esteemed in England is the fault of [310 
poet-apes, not poets; since, lastly, our 
tongue is most fit to honor poesy, and to 
be honored by poesy; I conjure you all 
that have had the evil luck to read this 
ink- wasting toy of mine, even in the name 
of the Nine Muses, no more to scorn the 



RALEIGH 



103 



sacred mysteries of poesy; no more to 
laugh at the name of poets, as though they 
were next inheritors to fools; no more to 
jest at the reverend title of a rimer; but [320 
to believe, . . . with me, that there are 
many mysteries contained in poetry which 
of purpose were written darkly, lest by 
profane wits it should be abused; to be- 
lieve, with Landin, that they are so be- 
loved of the gods that whatsoever they 
write proceeds of a divine fury; lastly, to 
believe themselves, when they tell you 
they will make you immortal by their 
verses. [330 

Thus doing, your name shall flourish in 
the printers' shops. Thus doing, you 
shall be of kin to many a poetical preface. 
Thus doing, you shall be most fair, most 
rich, most wise, most all: you shall dwell 
upon superlatives. Thus doing, though 
you be Libertino patre natus, you shall 
suddenly grow Herculea proles, 

Si quid mea carmina possunt. 

Thus doing, your soul shall be placed [340 
with Dante's Beatrice or Virgil's Anchises. 
But if (fie of such a but!) you be born 
so near the dull-making cataract of Nilus, 
that you cannot hear the planet-like 
music of poetry; if you have so earth- 
creeping a mind, that it cannot lift itself 
up to look to the sky of poetry, or rather, 
by a certain rustical disdain, will become 
such a mome as to be a Momus of po- 
etry; then, though I will not wish unto [350 
you the ass's ears of Midas, nor to be 
driven by a poet's verses, as Bubonax 
was, to hang himself; nor to be rimed to 
death, as is said to be done in Ireland; yet 
thus much curse I must send you in the 
behalf of all poets: that while you live 
you live in love, and never get favor 
for lacking skill of a sonnet; and when 
you die, your memory die from the earth 
for want of an epitaph. [360 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH (15527-1618) 

THE LAST FIGHT OF THE REVENGE 

Because the rumors are diversely spread, 
as well in England as in the low countries 
and elsewhere, of this late encounter be- 
tween her Majesty's ships and the Armada 



of Spain; and that the Spaniards, accord- 
ing to their usual manner, fill the world 
with their vain-glorious vaunts, making 
great appearance of victories, when on 
the contrary themselves are most com- 
monly and shamefully beaten and dis- [10 
honored, thereby hoping to possess the 
ignorant multitude by anticipating and 
forerunning false reports: it is agreeable 
with all good reason (for manifestation of 
the truth, to overcome falsehood and 
untruth), that the beginning, continu- 
ance, and success of this late honorable 
encounter of Sir Richard Grenville, and 
other her Majesty's captains, with the 
Armada of Spain, should be truly set [20 
down and published without partiality or 
false imaginations. And it is no marvel 
that the Spaniards should seek by false 
and slanderous pamphlets, advisos, and 
letters, to cover their own loss, and to 
derogate from others their due honors 
(especially in this fight, being performed 
far off), seeing they were not ashamed in 
the year 1588, when they purposed the 
invasion of this land, to publish in [30 
sundry languages, in print, great victories 
(in words) which they pleaded to have 
obtained against this realm, and spread 
the same in a most false sort over all 
parts of France, Italy, and elsewhere. . . . 

The Lord Thomas Howard, with six 
of her Majesty's ships, six victuallers of 
London, the bark Raleigh, and two or 
three pinnaces, riding at anchor near unto 
Flores, one of the westerly islands of [40 
the Azores, the last of August in the after- 
noon, had intelligence by one Captain 
Middleton, of the approach of the Spanish 
Armada. Which Middleton, being in a 
very good sailer, had kept them company 
three days before, of good purpose both 
to discover their forces the more, as also 
to give advice to my Lord Thomas of their 
approach. 

He had no sooner delivered the news [50 
but the fleet was in sight. Many of our 
ships' companies were on shore in the 
island, some providing ballast for their 
ships, others filling of water and refresh- 
ing themselves from the land with such 
things as they could either for money 
or by force recover. By reason whereof 
our ships being all pestered, and rummag- 



I04 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



ing, every thing out of order, very light 
for want of ballast. And that which [60 
was most to our disadvantage, the one 
half part of the men of every ship sick and 
utterly unserviceable. For in the Revenge 
there were ninety diseased; in the Bona- 
venture, not so many in health as could 
handle her mainsail. For had not twenty 
men been taken out of a bark of Sir 
George Gary's, his being commanded to 
be sunk, and those appointed to her, she 
had hardly ever recovered England. [70 
The rest, for the most part, were in little 
better state. 

The names of her Majesty's ships were 
these, as followeth: the Defiance, which 
was Admiral; the Revenge, Vice Admiral; 
the Bonaventure, commanded by Gaptain 
Grosse; the Lion, by George Fenner; the 
Foresight, by Thomas Vavisour; and the 
Crane, by Duffield. The Foresight and 
the Crane being but small ships only; [80 
the other were of middle size. The rest, 
besides the bark Raleigh, commanded by 
Gaptain Thin, were victuallers, and of 
small force or none. 

The Spanish fleet, having shrouded 
their approach by reason of the island, 
were now so soon at hand as our ships had 
scarce time to weigh their anchors, but 
some of them were driven to let slip their 
cables and set sail. Sir Richard Gren- [90 
ville was the last weighed, to recover the 
men that were upon the island, which other- 
wise had been lost. The Lord Thomas 
with the rest very hardly recovered the 
wind, which Sir Richard Grenville not 
being able to do, was persuaded by the 
master and others to cut his mainsail and 
cast about, and to trust to the sailing of 
his ship: for the squadron of Seville were 
on his weather bow. But Sir Richard [100 
utterly refused to turn from the enemy, 
alleging that he would rather choose to 
die, than to dishonor himself, his country, 
and her Majesty's ship; persuading his 
company that he would pass through the 
two squadrons in despite of them, and 
enforce those of Seville to give him way. 
Which he performed upon divers of the 
foremost, who, as the mariners term it, 
sprang their luff, and fell under the [no 
lee of the Revenge. But the other course 
had been the better, and might right well 



have been answered in so great an im- 
possibility of prevailing. Notwithstand- 
ing out of the greatness of his mind he 
could not be persuaded. 

In the meanwhile, as he attended those 
which were nearest him, the great San 
Philip, being in the wind of him, and 
coming towards him, becalmed his [120 
sails in such sort as the ship could neither 
way nor feel the helm: so huge and high 
carged was the Spanish ship, being of a 
thousand and five hundred tons; who 
after laid the Revenge aboard. When he 
was thus bereft of his sails, the ships that 
were under his lee, luffing up, also laid 
him aboard; of which the next was the 
admiral of the Biscayans, a very mighty 
and puissant ship commanded by [130 
Brittan Dona. The said Philip carried 
three tier of ordinance on a side, and 
eleven pieces in every tier. She shot eight 
forthright out of her chase, besides those 
of her stern ports. 

After the Revenge was entangled with 
this Philip, four other boarded her, two 
on her larboard^ and two on her starboard. 
The fight thus beginning at three of the 
clock in the afternoon continued very [140 
terrible all that evening. But the great 
San Philip, having received the lower 
tier of the Revenge, discharged with cross- 
barshot, shifted herself with all diligence 
from her sides, utterly misliking her first 
entertainment. Some say that the ship 
foundered, but we cannot report it for 
truth, unless we were assured. 

The Spanish ships were filled with com- 
panies of soldiers, in some two hun- [150 
dred besides the mariners, in some five, 
in others eight hundred. In ours there 
were none at all besides the mariners, but 
the servants of the commanders and some 
few voluntary gentlemen only. After 
many interchanged volleys of great or- 
dinance and small shot, the Spaniards 
deliberated to enter the Revenge, and made 
divers attempts, hoping to force her by 
the multitudes of their armed soldiers [160 
and musketeers, but were still repulsed 
again and again, and at all times beaten 
back into their own ships or into the seas. 
In the beginning of the fight, the George 
Noble of London, having received some 
shot through her by the armados, fell 



RALEIGH 



loS 



under the lee of the Revenge, and asked 
Sir Richard what he would command him, 
being but one of the victuallers and of 
small force. Sir Richard bade him [170 
save himself, and leave him to his for- 
tune. 

After the fight had thus without inter- 
mission continued while the day lasted 
and some hours of the night, many of our 
men were slain and hurt, and one of the 
great galleons of the Armada and the Ad- 
miral of the Hulks both sunk, and in 
many other of the Spanish ships great 
slaughter was made. Some write that [180 
Sir Richard was very dangerously hurt 
almost in the beginning of the fight, 
and lay speechless for a time ere he re- 
covered. But two of the Revengers own 
company brought home in a ship of Lime 
from the islands, examined by some of 
the Lords and others, afiirmed that he 
was never so wounded as that he forsook 
the upper deck, till an hour before mid- 
night; and then being shot into the [190 
body with a musket, as he was a-dressing 
was again shot into the head, and withal 
his surgeon wounded to death. This 
agreeth also with an examination, taken 
by Sir Francis Godolphin, of four other 
mariners of the same ship being returned, 
which examination the said Sir Francis 
sent unto master William Killigrew, of 
her Majesty's Pri\^ Chamber. 

But to return to the fight, the Span- [200 
ish ships which attempted to board the 
Revenge, as they were wounded and beaten 
off, so always others came in their places, 
she having never less than two mighty 
galleons by her sides and aboard her. So 
that ere the morning, from three of the 
clock the day before there had fifteen 
several armados assailed her; and all so 
ill appro 'ed their entertainment, as they 
were by the break of day far more will- [210 
ing to hearken to a composition than has- 
tily to make any more assaults or entries. 
But as the day increased, so our men de- 
creased; and as the light grew more and 
more, by so much more grew our discom- 
forts. For none appeared in sight but 
enemies, sa\dng one small ship called the 
Pilgrim, commanded by Jacob Whiddon, 
who hovered all night to see the success; 
but in the morning, bearing with the Izio 



Revenge, was hunted like a hare among 
many ravenous hounds, but escaped. 

All the powder of the Revenge to the 
last barrel was now spent, all her pikes 
broken, forty of her best men slain, and 
the most part of the rest hurt. In the 
beginning of the fight she had but one 
hundred free from sickness, and fourscore 
and ten sick, laid in hold upon the ballast. 
A small troop to man such a ship, [230 
and a weak garrison to resist so mighty 
an army! By those hundred all was sus- 
tained, the volleys, boardings, and enter- 
ings of fifteen ships of war, besides those 
which beat her at large. On the contrary 
the Spanish were always supplied with 
soldiers brought from every squadron, 
all manner of arms, and powder at will. 
Unto ours there remained no comfort 
at all, no hope, no supply either of [240 
ships, men, or weapons; the masts all 
beaten overboard, all her tackle cut asun- 
der, her upper work altogether razed; and, 
in effect, evened she was with the water, 
but the very foundation or bottom of a 
ship, nothing being left overhead either 
for flight or defence. 

Sir Richard finding himself in this dis- 
tress, and unable any longer to make re- 
sistance, — having endured in this fif- [250 
teen hours' fight the assault of fifteen sev- 
eral armados, all by turns aboard him, 
and by estimation eight hundred shot of 
great artillery, besides many assaults and 
entries, and that himself and the ship 
must needs be possessed by the enemy, 
who were now cast in a ring round about 
him, the Revenge not able to move one way 
or other but as she was moved by the 
waves and billow of the sea, — com- [260 
manded the master gunner, whom he knew 
to be a most resolute man, to split and sink 
the ship, that thereby nothing might re- 
main of glory or victory to the Spaniards, 
seeing in so many hours' fight, and ^^ith 
so great a navy, they were not able to 
take her, having had fifteen hours' time, 
fifteen thousand men, and fifty and three 
sail of men-of-war to perform it withal; 
and persuaded the company, or as [270 
many as he could induce, to yield them- 
selves unto God, and to the mercy of none 
else, but, as they had, like valiant resolute 
men, repulsed so many enemies, they 



lot) 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



should not now shorten the honor of their 
nation by prolonging their own Uves for a 
few hours or a few days. 

The master gunner readily conde- 
scended, and divers others. But the Cap- 
tain and the Master were of another [280 
opinion and besought Sir Richard to 
have care of them, alleging that the 
Spaniard would be as ready to entertain 
a composition as they were willing to offer 
the same, and that there being divers 
sufficient and vaUant men yet living, and 
whose wounds were not mortal, they 
might do their country and prince ac- 
ceptable service hereafter. And (that 
where Sir Richard had alleged that [290 
the Spaniards should never glory to have 
taken one ship of her Majesty's, seeing 
that they had so long and so nota- 
bly defended themselves) they answered 
that the ship had six foot of water in 
hold, three shot under water which were 
so weakly stopped as, with the first work- 
ing of the sea, she must needs sink, and was 
besides so crushed and bruised as she could 
never be removed out of the place. [300 

And as the matter was thus in dispute, 
and Sir Richard refusing to hearken to 
any of those reasons, the Master of the 
Revenge (while the Captain won unto 
him the greater party) was convoyed 
aboard the General Don Alfonso Bassan. 
Who finding none over hasty to enter the 
Revenge again, doubting lest Sir Richard 
would have blown them up and himself, 
and perceiving by the report of the [310 
Master of the Revenge his dangerous dis- 
position, yielded that all their lives should 
be saved, the company sent for England, 
and the better sort to pay such reasonable 
ransom as their estate would bear, and 
in the mean season to be free from galley 
or imprisonment. To this he so much 
the rather condescended, as well, as I have 
said, for fear of further loss and mischief 
to themselves, as also for the desire he [320 
had to recover Sir Richard Grenville; 
whom for his notable valor he seemed 
greatly to honor and admire. 

When this answer was returned, and 
that safety of life was promised, the com- 
mon sort being now at the end of their 
peril, the most drew back from Sir Richard 
and the gunner, being no hard mattef to 



dissuade men from death to life. The 
master gunner finding himself and Sir [330 
Richard thus prevented and mastered by 
the greater number, would have slain 
himself with a sword had he not been by 
force withheld and locked into his cabin. 
Then the General sent many boats aboard 
the Revenge, and divers of our men, fearing 
Sir Richard's disposition, stole away 
aboard the General and other ships. Sir 
Richard, thus overmatched, was sent 
unto by Alfonso Bassan to remove [340 
out of the Revenge, the ship being mar- 
vellous unsavory, filled with blood and 
bodies of dead and wounded men like a 
slaughter-house. Sir Richard answered 
that he might do with his body what he 
list, for he esteemed it not; and as he was 
carried out of the ship he swooned, and 
reviving again, desired the company to 
pray for him. The General used Sir 
Richard with all humanity, and left [350 
nothing unattempted that tended to his 
recovery, highly commending his valor 
and worthiness, and greatly bewailed the 
danger wherein he was, being imto them 
a rare spectacle, and a resolution seldom 
approved, to see one ship turn toward so 
many enemies, to endure the charge and 
boarding of so many huge armados, and 
to resist and repel the assaults and entries 
of so many soldiers. All which, and [360 
more, is confirmed by a Spanish captain 
of the same Armada, and a present actor 
in the fight, who, being severed from the 
rest in a storm, was by the Lion, of Lon- 
don, a small ship, taken, and is now pris- 
oner in London. 

The General Commander of the Armada 
was Don Alfonso Bassan, brother to the 
Marquis of Santa Cruce. The Admiral 
of the Biscayan squadron was Britan [370 
Dona; of the squadron of Seville, Marquis 
of Arumburch. The Hulks and Fly-boats 
were commanded by Luis Cutino. There 
were slain and drowned in this fight well 
near two thousand of the enemies, and 
two especial Commanders, Don Luis de 
Sant John, and Don George de Prunaria de 
Malaga, as the Spanish Captain confesseth, 
besides divers others of special account, 
whereof as yet report is not made. [380 

The Admiral of the Hulks and the 
Ascension of Seville were both sunk by 



BACON 



107 



the side of the Revenge; one other re- 
covered the road of Saint Michaels, and 
sunk also there; a fourth ran herself with 
the shore to save her men. Sir Richard 
died, as it is said, the second or third day 
aboard the General, and was by them 
greatly bewailed. What became of his 
body, whether it was buried in the sea [390 
or on the land, we know not: the com- 
fort that remaineth to his friends is, that 
he hath ended his life honorably in respect 
of the reputation won to his nation and 
country, and of the same to his posterity, 
and that, being dead, he hath not out- 
lived his own honor. . . . 

A few days after the fight was ended, 
and the English prisoners dispersed into 
the Spanish and Indian ships, there [400 
arose so great a storm from the west and 
northwest that all the fleet was dispersed, 
as well the Indian fleet which were then 
come unto them, as the rest of the Armada 
which attended their arrival. Of which, 
fourteen sail, together with the Revenge 
(and in her two hundred Spaniards), were 
cast away upon the isle of St. Michaels. 
So it pleased them to honor the burial of 
that renowned ship the Revenge, not [410 
suffering her to perish alone, for the great 
honor she achieved in her lifetime. . . . 

To conclude, it hath ever to this day 
pleased God to prosper and defend her 
Majesty, to break the purposes of ma- 
licious enemies, of forsworn traitors, and 
of unjust practises and invasions. She 
hath ever been honored of the worthiest 
kings, served by faithful subjects, and shall 
by the favor of God resist, repel, and [420 
confound all whatsoever attempts against 
her sacred person or kingdom. In the mean- 
time, let the Spaniard and traitor vaunt of 
their success; and we, her true and obedient 
vassals, guided by the shining light of her 
virtues, shall always love her, serve her, 
and obey her to the end of our lives. 

FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626) 

From THE ESSAYS 

Essay I.— OF TRUTH 

What is truth? said jesting Pilate, and 
would not stay for an answer. Certainly 
there be that delight in giddiness, and 



count it a bondage to fix a belief; affect- 
ing free-will in thinking, as well as in 
acting. And though the sects of philos- 
ophers of that kind be gone, yet there 
remain certain discoursing wits which 
are of the same veins, though there be 
not so much blood in them as was in [10 
those of the ancients. But it is not only 
the difficulty and labor which men take 
in finding out of truth, nor again that 
when it is found it imposeth upon men's 
thoughts, that doth bring lies in favor; 
but a natural though corrupt love of the 
lie itself. One of the later school of the 
Grecians examineth the matter, and is at 
a stand to think what should be in it, 
that men should love lies, where [20 
neither they make for pleasure, as with 
poets, nor for advantage, as with the 
merchant, but for the lie's sake. But I 
cannot tell : this same truth is a naked and 
open day-light, that doth not show the 
masks and mummeries and triumphs of 
the world, half so stately and daintily as 
candle-lights. Truth may perhaps come 
to the price of a pearl, that showeth best 
by day; but it will not rise to the price [30 
of a diamond or carbuncle, that showeth 
best in varied lights. A mixture of a lie 
doth ever add pleasure. Doth any man 
doubt, that if there were taken out of 
men's minds vain opinions, flattering 
hopes, false valuations, imaginations as 
one would, and the like, but it would 
leave the minds of a number of men poor 
shrunken things, full of melancholy and 
indisposition, and unpleasing to them- [40 
selves? One of the Fathers, in great 
severity, called poesy vinum dcemonum, 
because it filleth the imagination, and yet 
it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it 
is not the lie that passeth through the 
mind, but the lie that sinketh in and 
settleth in it, that doth the hurt, such as 
we spake of before. But howsoever these 
things are thus in men's depraved judg- 
ments and affections, yet truth, which [50 
only doth judge itself, teacheth that the 
inquiry of truth, which is the love-making 
or wooing of it, the knowledge of truth, 
which is the presence of it, and the belief 
of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is 
the sovereign good of human nature. The 
first creature of God, in the works of the 



io8 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



days, was the light of the sense; the last 
was the light of reason; and his sabbath 
work, ever since, is the illumination of [60 
his Spirit. First he breathed light upon 
the face of the matter or chaos; then he 
breathed light into the face of man; and 
still he breatheth and inspireth light into 
the face of his chosen. The poet that 
beautified the sect that was otherwise 
inferior to the rest, saith yet excellently 
well: It is a pleasure to stand upon the 
shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea: a 
pleasure to stand in the window of a [70 
castle, and to see a battle and the adventures 
thereof below: but no pleasure is comparable 
to the standing upon the vantage ground 
of Truth (a hill not to be commanded, and 
where the air is always clear and serene), 
and to see the errors, and wanderings, and 
mists, and tempests, in the vale below: so 
always that this prospect be with pity, 
and not with swelling or pride. Certainly, 
it is heaven upon earth, to have a man's [80 
mind move in charity, rest in providence, 
and turn upon the poles of truth. 

To pass from theological and philosoph- 
ical truth, to the truth of civil business: 
it will be acknowledged, even by those 
that practise it not, that clear and round 
dealing is the honor of man's nature; and 
that mixture of falsehood is like alloy in 
coin of gold and silver; which may make 
the metal work the better, but it em- [90 
baseth it. For these winding and crooked 
courses are the goings of the serpent; 
which goeth basely upon the belly, and 
not upon the feet. There is no vice that 
doth so cover a man with shame as to be 
found false and perfidious. And therefore 
Montaigne saith prettily, when he in- 
quired the reason, why the word of the 
lie should be such a disgrace and such 
an odious charge? Saith he, // it be [100 
well weighed, to say that a man lieth, is as 
much to say as that he is brave towards God 
and a coward towards men. For a lie faces 
God, and shrinks from man. Surely the 
wickedness of falsehood and breach of 
faith cannot possibly be so highly ex- 
pressed, as in that it shall be the last peal 
to call the judgments of God upon the 
generations of men; it being foretold, 
that when Christ cometh, he shall not [no 
find faith upon the earth. 



Essay v.— OF ADVERSITY 

It was an high speech of Seneca (after 
the manner of the Stoics): That the good 
things which belong to prosperity are to be 
wished; but the good things that belong to 
adversity are to be admired. Bona rerum 
secundartim optabilia, adversarum mira- 
bilia. Certainly if miracles be the com- 
mand over nature, they appear most in 
adversity. It is yet a higher speech of 
his than the other (much too high for [10 
a heathen): It is true greatness to have in 
one the frailty of a man, and the security 
of a God. Vere magnum, habere fragilita- 
tem hominis, securitatem Dei. This would 
have done better in poesy, where tran- 
scendences are more allowed. And the 
poets indeed have been busy with it; for 
it is in effect the thing which is figured in 
that strange fiction of the ancient poets, 
which seemeth not to be without mys- [20 
tery; nay, and to have some approach to 
the state of a Christian: that Hercules, 
when he pent to unbind Prometheus (by 
whom human nature is represented), 
sailed the length of the great ocean in an 
earthen pot or pitcher: lively describing 
Christian resolution, that saileth in the 
frail bark of the flesh through the waves 
of the world. But to speak in a mean. 
The virtue of prosperity is temperance; [30 
the virtue of adversity is fortitude, which 
in morals is the more heroical virtue. 
Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Tes- 
tament; adversity is the blessing of the 
New, which carrieth the greater benedic- 
tion, and the clearer revelation of God's 
favor. Yet even in the Old Testament, 
if you listen to David's harp, you shall 
hear as many hearse-like airs as carols; 
and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath [40 
labored more in describing the afflictions 
of Job than the felicities of Salomon. 
Prosperity is not without many fears and 
distastes; and adversity is not without 
comforts and hopes. We see in needle- 
works and embroideries, it is more pleas- 
ing to have a lively work upon a sad and 
solemn ground, than to have a dark and 
melancholy work upon a lightsome ground: 
judge therefore of the pleasure of the [50 
heart by the pleasure of the eye. Cer- 
tainly virtue is like precious odors, most 



BACON 



log 



fragrant when they are incensed or crushed : 
for prosperity doth best discover vice ; but 
adversity doth best discover virtue. 



Essay VII— OF MARRIAGE AND 
SINGLE LIFE 

He that hath wife and children hath 
given hostages to fortune; for they are 
impediments to great enterprises, either 
of virtue or mischief. Certainly the best 
works, and of greatest merit for the pub- 
lic, have proceeded from the unmarried 
or childless men, which both in affection 
and means have married and endowed 
the public. Yet it were great reason that 
those that have children should have [lo 
greatest care of future times; unto which 
they know they must transmit their dear- 
est pledges. Some there are, who though 
they lead a single life, yet their thoughts 
do end with themselves, and account 
future times impertinences. Nay, there 
are some other that account wife and 
children but as bills of charges. Nay 
more, there are some foolish rich covetous 
men that take a pride in having no [20 
children, because they may be thought so 
much the richer. For perhaps they have 
heard some talk. Stick an one is a great 
rich man, and another except to it, Yea, 
but he hath a great charge of children; as 
if it were an abatement to his riches. But 
the most ordinary cause of a single life 
is liberty; especially in certain self-pleasing 
and humorous minds, which are so sensi- 
ble of every restraint, as they will go [30 
near to think their girdles and garters to 
be bonds and shackles. Unmarried men 
are best friends, best masters, best serv- 
ants; but not always best subjects; for 
they are light to run away; and almost all 
fugitives are of that condition. A single 
life doth well with churchmen, for charity 
will hardly water the ground where it 
must first fill a pool. It is indifferent for 
judges and magistrates, for if they be [40 
facile and corrupt, you shall have a serv- 
ant five times worse than a wife. For 
soldiers, I find the generals commonly in 
their hortatives put men in mind of their 
wives and children; and I think the de- 
spising of marriage amongst the Turks 



maketh the vulgar soldier more base. 
Certainly wife and children are a kind of 
discipline of humanity; and single men, 
though they be many times more [50 
charitable, because their means are less 
exhaust, yet, on the other side, they are 
more cruel and hard-hearted (good to 
make severe inquisitors), because their 
tenderness is not so oft called upon. Grave 
natures, led by custom, and therefore 
constant, are commonly loving husbands; 
as was said of Ulysses, Vetulam suam 
prcetulit immortalitati. Chaste women 
are often proud and froward, as pre- [60 
suming upon the merit of their chastity. 
It is one of the best bonds both of chastity 
and obedience in the wife, if she think 
her husband wise; which she will never 
do if she find him jealous. Wives are 
young men's mistresses; companions for 
middle age; and old men's nurses. So 
as a man may have a quarrel to marry 
when he will. But yet he was reputed one 
of the wise men, that made answer to [70 
the question, when a man should marry? — 
A young man not yet, an elder man not at 
all. It is often seen that bad husbands 
have very good wives; whether it be that 
it raiseth the price of their husband's 
kindness when it comes; or that the 
wives take a pride in their patience. But 
this never fails, if the bad husbands were 
of their own choosing, against their 
friends' consent; for then they will be [80 
sure to make good their own folly. 



Essay XL— OF GREAT PLACE 

Men in great places are thrice servants : 
ser\^ants of the sovereign or state; serv- 
ants of fame; and servants of business. 
So as they have no freedom, neither in 
their persons, nor in their actions, nor in 
their times. It is a strange desire, to seek 
power and to lose liberty; or to seek power 
over others and to lose power over a man's 
self. The rising unto place is laborious, 
and by pains men come to greater [10 
pains; and it is sometimes base, and by 
indignities men come to dignities. The 
standing is slippery; and the regress is 
either a downfall, or at least an eclipse, 
which is a melancholy thing. Cum non 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



sis quifueris, non esse cur velis vivere. Nay, 
retire men cannot when they would; 
neither will they when it were reason; 
but are impatient of privateness, even in 
age and sickness, which require the [20 
shadow: like old townsmen, that will be 
still sitting at their street door, though 
thereby they offer age to scorn. Cer- 
tainly, great persons had need to borrow 
other men's opinions, to think themselves 
happy; for if they judge by their own 
feeling, they cannot find it: but if they 
think with themselves what other men 
think of them, and that other men would 
fain be as they are, then they are [30 
happy as it were by report, when perhaps 
they find the contrary within. For they 
are the first that find their own griefs, 
though they be the last that find their 
own faults. Certainly, men in great for- 
tunes are strangers to themselves, and 
while they are in the puzzle of business 
they have no time to tend their health, 
either of body or mind. Hli mors gravis 
incubat, qui notus nimis omnibus, ignotus [40 
moritur sibi. In place there is licence to 
do good and evil; whereof the latter is a 
curse: for in evil the best condition is not 
to will, the second not to can. But power 
to do good is the true and lawful end of 
aspiring. For good thoughts (though 
God accept them) yet towards men are 
little better than good dreams, except 
they be put in act ; and that cannot be with- 
out power and place, as the vantage [50 
and commanding ground. Merit and 
good works is the end of man's motion; 
and conscience of the same is the accom- 
plishment of man's rest. For if a man 
can be partaker of God's theatre, he shall 
likewise be partaker of God's rest. Et 
conversus Deus, ut aspiceret opera quce 
fecerunt manus sucb, vidit quod omnia essent 
bona nimis; and then the Sabbath. In the 
discharge of thy place, set before thee [60 
the best examples; for imitation is a globe 
of precepts. And after a time set before 
thee thine own example; and examine 
thyself strictly, whether thou didst not 
best at first. Neglect not also the ex- 
amples of those that have carried them- 
selves ill in the same place; not to set 
off thyself by taxing their memory, but 
to direct thyself what to avoid. Reform, 



therefore, without bravery or scandal of [70 
former times and persons; but yet set it 
down to thyself as well to create good 
precedents as to follow them. Reduce 
things to the first institution, and observe 
wherein and how they have degenerate; 
but yet ask counsel of both times; of the 
ancient time, what is best; and of the 1 
latter time, what is fittest. Seek to make 1 
thy course regular, that men may know 
beforehand what they may expect ; but [80 
be not too positive and peremptory; and 
express thyself well when thou digressest 
from thy rule. Preserve the right of thy 
place, but stir not questions of jurisdic- 
tion: and rather assume thy right in 
silence and de facto, than voice it with 
claims and challenges. Preserve like- 
wise the rights of inferior places; and 
think it more honor to direct in chief than 
to be busy in all. Embrace and invite [90 
helps and advices touching the execution 
of thy place; and do not drive away 
such as bring thee information as meddlers, 
but accept of them in good part. The 
vices of authority are chiefly four: delays, 
corruption, roughness, and facility. For 
delays: give easy access; keep times ap- 1 
pointed; go through with that which is | 
in hand; and interlace not business but of 
necessity. For corruption: do not only [100 
bind thine own hands or thy servants' 
hands from taking, but bind the hands of 
suitors also from offering. For integrity 
used doth the one ; but integrity professed, 
and with a manifest detestation of bribery, 
doth the other. And avoid not only the 
fault, but the suspicion. Whosoever is 
found variable, and changeth manifestly 
without manifest cause, giveth suspicion 
of corruption. Therefore always when [no 
thou changest thine opinion or course, 
profess it plainly and declare it, together 
with the reasons that move thee to change; 
and do not think to steal it. A servant 
or a favorite, if he be inward, and no 
other apparent cause of esteem, is com- 
monly thought but a by-way to close 
corruption. For roughness, it is a need- 
less cause of discontent: severity breedeth 
fear, but roughness breedeth hate. [120 
Even reproofs from authority ought to be 
grave, and not taunting. As for facility, 
it is worse than bribery. For bribes come 



BACON 



but now and then; but if importunity 
or idle respects lead a man, he shall never 
be without. As Salomon saith: To respect 
persons is not good; for such a man will 
transgress for a piece of bread. It is most 
true that was anciently spoken, A place 
showeth the man: and it showeth some to [130 
the better, and some to the worse. Om- 
nhmi consensu capax imperii, nisi im- 
per asset, saith Tacitus of Galba; but of 
Vespasian he saith, Solus imperantium 
Vespasianus miitatus in melius: though 
the one was meant of sufficiency, the 
other of manners and affection. It is an 
assured sign of a worthy and generous 
spirit, whom honor amends. For honor is, 
or should be, the place of virtue; and [140 
as in nature things move violently to their 
place, and calmly in their place; so virtue 
in ambition is violent, in authority settled 
and calm. All rising to great place is by 
a winding stair; and if there be factions, 
it is good to side a man's self whilst he is 
in the rising, and to balance himself 
when he is placed. Use the memory of 
thy predecessor fairly and tenderly; for 
if thou dost not, it is a debt will sure [150 
be paid when thou art gone. If thou have 
colleagues, respect them, and rather call 
them when they look not for it, than ex- 
clude them when they have reason to 
look to be called. Be not too sensible or 
too remembering of thy place in con- 
versation and private answers to suitors; 
but let it rather be said, When he sits in 
place he is another man. 

Essay XXIII.— OF WISDOM FOR A 
MAN'S SELF 

An ant is a wise creature for itself, but 
it is a shrewd thing in an orchard or gar- 
den. And certainly men that are great 
lovers of themselves waste the public. 
Divide with reason between self-love and 
society; and be so true to thyself as thou 
be not false to others, specially to thy 
king and countr}^ It is a poor centre of 
a man's actions, himself. It is right 
earth. For that only stands fast upon [10 
his own centre; whereas all things that 
have affinit}' with the heavens move upon 
the centre of another, which they benefit. 
The referring of all to a man's self is more 



tolerable in a sovereign prince; because 
themselves are not only themselves, but 
their good and evil is at the peril of the 
public fortune. But it is a desperate evil 
in a servant to a prince, or a citizen in a 
republic. For whatsoever affairs pass [20 
such a man's hands, he crooketh them to 
his own ends; which must needs be often 
eccentric to the ends of his master or state. 
Therefore let princes, or states, choose 
such servants as have not this mark; 
except they mean their service should be 
made but the accessory. That which 
maketh the effect more pernicious is that 
all proportion is lost. It were dispro- 
portion enough for the servant's good [30 
to be preferred before the master's; but 
yet it is a greater extreme, when a little 
good of the servant shall carry things 
against a great good of the master's. And 
yet that is the case of bad officers, treas- 
urers, ambassadors, generals, and other 
false and corrupt servants; which set a 
bias upon their bowl, of their own petty 
ends and envies, to the overthrow of their 
master's great and important affairs. [40 
And for the most part, the good such serv- 
ants receive is after the model of their 
own fortune; but the hurt they sell for 
that good is after the model of their 
master's fortune. And certainly it is the 
nature of extreme self-lovers, as they will 
set an house on fire, and it were but to 
roast their eggs; and yet these men many 
times hold credit with their masters, be- 
cause their study is but to please them [50 
and profit themselves; and for either re- 
spect they will abandon the good of their 
affairs. 

Wisdom for a man's self is, in many 
branches thereof, a depraved thing. It 
is the wisdom of rats, that will be sure to 
leave a house somewhat before it fall. It 
is the wisdom of the fox, that thrusts out 
the badger, who digged and made room 
for him. It is the \\dsdom of croco- [60 
diles, that shed tears when they would 
devour. But that which is specially to 
be noted is, that those which (as Cicero 
says of Pompey) are sni amantes sine 
rivali, are many times unfortunate. And 
whereas they have all their time sacrificed 
to themselves, they become in the end 
themselves sacrifices to the inconstancv 



112 



TFIE ELIZABETH AX AGE 



of fortune, whose wings they thought by 
their self- wisdom to have pinioned. [70 

Essay XLII.— OF YOUTH AND AGE 

A man that is young in years may be 
old in hours, if he have lost no time. But 
that happeneth rarely. Generally, youth 
is like the first cogitations, not so wise 
as the second. For there is a youth in 
thoughts as well as in ages. And yet the 
invention of young men is more lively 
than that of the old; and imaginations 
stream into their minds better, and, as it 
were, more divinely. Natures that [10 
have much heat, and great and violent 
desires and perturbations, are not ripe 
for action till they have passed the merid- 
ian of their years: as it was with Julius 
Caesar, and Septimius Severus. Of the 
latter of whom it is said, Juventutem egit 
erroribus, imo furoribics, plenam. And 
yet he was the ablest emperor, almost, 
of all the list. But reposed natures may 
do well in youth. As it is seen in Au- [20 
gustus Ca?sar, Cosmus, Duke of Florence, 
Gaston de Foix, and others. On the other 
side, heat and vivacity in age is an excel- 
lent composition for business. Young 
men are fitter to invent than to judge; 
fitter for execution than for counsel; and 
fitter for new . projects than for settled 
business. For the experience of age, in 
things that fall within the compass of it, 
directeth them; but in new things, [30 
abuseth them. The errors of young men 
are the ruin of business; but the errors of 
aged men amount but to this, that more 
might have been done, or sooner. Young 
men, in the conduct and manage of ac- 
tions, embrace more than they can hold; 
stir more than they can quiet; fly to the 
end, without consideration of the means 
and degrees; pursue some few principles 
which the}' ha^'e chanced upon ab- [40 
surdly; care not to innovate, which draws 
unknown inconveniences; use extreme 
remedies at first; and, that which doubleth 
all errors, will not acknowledge or retract 
them; like an unready horse, that will 
neither stop nor turn. Men of age object 
too much, consult too long, adventure 
too little, repent too soon, and seldom 
drive business home to the full period. 



but content themselves with a medioc- [5c 
rity of success. Certainly, it is good to 
compound employments of both; for that 
will be good for the present, because the 
virtues of either age may correct the de- 
fects of both; and good for succession, 
that young men may be learners, while 
men in age are actors; and, lastly, good 
for extern accidents, because authorit}- 
followeth old men, and favor and popu- 
larity youth. But for the moral part, [60 
perhaps youth will have the pre-eminence, 
as age hath for the politic. A certain 
rabbin, upon the text, Your young men 
shall see visions, and your old men shall 
dream dreams, inferreth that young men 
are admitted nearer to God than old, 
because vision is a clearer revelation than 
a dream. And certainly, the more a man 
drinketh of the world, the more it in- 
toxicateth; and age doth profit rather [70 
in the powers of understanding, than in 
the virtues of the will and affections. 
There be some have an over-early ripeness 
in their years, which fadeth betimes. 
These are, first, such as have brittle wits, 
the edge whereof is soon turned; such as 
was Hermogenes the rhetorician, whose 
books are exceeding subtile, who after- 
wards waxed stupid. A second sort is of 
those that have some natural disposi- [So 
tions which have better grace in youth 
than in age; such as is a fluent and luxuri- 
ant speech, which becomes youth well, 
but not age: so Tully saith of Hortensius, 
Idem manebat, neque idem docebat. The 
third is of such as take too high a strain 
at the first, and are magnanimous more 
than tract of years can uphold. As was 
Scipio Africanus, of whom lAvy saith in 
effect. Ultima primis cedebant. [90 

Essay XLVL— OF GARDENS 

God Almighty first planted a garden. 
And indeed it is the purest of human 
pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment 
to the spirits of man; without which, 
buildings and palaces are but gross handi- 
works: and a man shall ever see that when 
ages grow to civility and elegancy, men 
come to build stately sooner than to 
garden finely; as if gardening were the 
greater perfection. I do hold it, in the [10 



BACON 



"3 



royal ordering of gardens, there ought to 
be gardens for all the months in the year; 
in which, severally, things of beauty may 
be then in season. For December and 
January and the latter part of November, 
you must take such things as are green 
all winter: holly, ivy, bays, juniper, 
cypress-trees, yew, pine-apple-trees, fir- 
trees, rosemary, lavender, periwinkle, — 
the white, the purple, and the blue, — [20 
germander, flags, orange-trees, lemon- 
trees, and myrtles, if they be stoved, and 
sweet marjoram, warm set. There fol- 
loweth, for the latter part of January and 
February, the mezereon-tree, which then 
blossoms, crocus vernus, both the yellow 
and the gray, primroses, anemones, the 
early tulippa, hyacinthus orientalis, cha- 
mairis, fritillaria. For March, there come 
violets, specially the single blue, which [30 
are the earliest, the yellow daffodil, the 
daisy, the almond-tree in blossom, the 
peach-tree in blossom, the cornelian-tree 
in blossom, sweet briar. In April follow 
the double white violet, the wall-flower, 
the stock-gillyflower, the cowslip, flower- 
delices and lilies of all natures, rosemary 
flowers, the tulippa, the double peony, 
the pale daffodil, the French honeysuckle, 
the cherry-tree in blossom, the dam- [40 
masin and plum-trees in blossom, the 
white-thorn in leaf, the lilac-tree. In 
May and June come pinks of all sorts, 
specially the blush pink, roses of all kinds, 
except the musk, which comes later, 
honeysuckles, strawberries, bugloss, col- 
umbine, the French marygold, flos Afri- 
canus, cherry-tree in fruit, ribes, figs in 
fruit, rasps, vine flowers, lavender in 
flowers, the sweet satyrian, with the [50 
white flower, herba muscaria, lilium con- 
vallium, the apple-tree in blossom. In 
July come gillyflowers of all varieties, 
musk-roses, the lime-tree in blossom, early 
pears and plums in fruit, ginnitings, 
quadlins. In August come plums of all 
sorts in fruit, pears, apricocks, barberries, 
filberts, musk-melons, monks-hoods of 
all colors. In September come grapes, 
apples, poppies of all colors, peaches, [60 
melocotones, nectarines, cornelians, war- 
dens, quinces. In October and the be- 
ginning of November come ser\dces, 
medlars, bullises, roses cut or removed to 



come late, hollyhocks, and such like. 
These particulars are for the climate of 
London; but my meaning is perceived, 
that you may have ver perpetuum, as the 
place affords. 

And because the breath of flowers is [70 
far sweeter in the air (where it comes and 
goes, Hke the warbling of music) than in 
the hand, therefore nothing is more fit 
for that delight, than to know what be the 
flowers and plants that do best perfume 
the air. Roses, damask and red, are fast 
flowers of their smells, so that you may 
walk by a whole row of them, and find 
nothing of their sweetness; yea, though 
it be in a morning's dew. Bays like- [80 
wise yield no smell as they grow. Rose- 
mary little; nor sweet marjoram. That 
which above all others yields the sweetest 
smell in the air, is the violet; specially 
the white double violet, which comes twice 
a year, about the middle of April, and 
about Bartholomewtide. Next to that 
is the musk-rose. Then the strawberry- 
leaves dying, which [yield] a most ex- 
cellent cordial smell. Then the flower [90 
of the vines; it is a little dust, Hke the 
dust of a bent, which grows upon the 
cluster in the first coming forth. Then 
sweet briar. Then wall-flowers, which 
are very delightful to be set under a parlor 
or lower chamber window. Then pinks 
and gillyflowers, specially the matted 
pink and clove gillyflower. Then the 
flowers of the lime-tree. Then the honey- 
suckles, so they be somewhat afar [100 
off. Of bean flowers I speak not, because 
they are field flowers. But those which 
perfume the air most delightfully, not 
passed by as the rest, but being trodden 
upon and crushed, are three: that is, 
burnet, wild thyme, and water-mints. 
Therefore you are to set whole alleys of 
them, to have the pleasure when you 
walk or tread. 



For fountains, they are a great [no 
beauty and refreshment; but pools mar 
all, and make the garden unwholesome 
and full of flies and frogs. Fountains I 
intend to be of two natures: the one, 
that sprinkle th or spouteth water; the 
other, a fair receipt of water, of some 



114 



THE ELIZABETHAN AGE 



thirty or forty foot square, but without 
fish, or sKme, or mud. For the first, the 
ornaments of images gilt, or of marble, 
which are in use, do well: but the main [120 
matter is, so to convey the water, as it 
never stay, either in the bowls or in the 
cistern; that the water be never by rest 
discolored, green or red or the like, or 
gather any mossiness or putrefaction. 
Besides that, it is to be cleansed every 
day by the hand. Also some steps up to 
it, and some fine pavement about it, doth 
well. As for the other kind of fountain, 
which we may call a bathing pool, it [130 
may admit much curiosity and beauty, 
wherewith we will not trouble ourselves: 
as, that the bottom be finely paved, and 
with images ; the sides likewise ; and withal 
embellished with colored glass, and such 
things of lustre; encompassed also with 
fine rails of low statues. But the main 
point is the same which we mentioned in 
the former kind of fountain; which is, 
that the water be in perpetual motion, [140 
fed by a water higher than the pool, and 
delivered into it by fair spouts, and then 
discharged away under ground, by some 
equality of bores, that it stay little. And 
for fine devices, of arching water without 
spilling, and making it rise in several 
forms (of feathers, drinking glasses, 
canopies, and the like), they be pretty 
things to look on, but nothing to health 
and sweetness. [150 



Essay L.— OF STUDIES 

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, 
and for ability. Their chief use for de- 
light is in privateness and retiring; for 
ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, 
is in the judgment and disposition of 
business. For expert men can execute, 
and perhaps judge of particulars, one by 
one; but the general counsels, and the 
plots and marshaUing of affairs, come 
best from those that are learned. To [ro 
spend too much time in studies is sloth; 
to use them too much for ornament is 
affectation; to make judgment wholly by 
their rules is the humor of a scholar. They 
perfect nature, and are perfected by ex- 
perience; for natural abilities are like 



natural plants, that need pruning by 
study; and studies themselves do give 
forth directions too much at large, except 
they be bounded in by experience. [20 
Crafty men contemn studies; simple men 
admire them; and wise men use them: 
for they teach not their own use; but 
that is a wisdom without them and above 
them, won by observation. Read not to 
contradict and confute; nor to believe 
and take for granted; nor to find talk and 
discourse; but to weigh and consider. 
Some books are to be tasted, others to 
be swallowed, and some few to be [30 
chewed and digested: that is, some books 
are to be read only in parts; others to be 
read, but not curiously; and some few 
to be read wholly, and with diligence and 
attention. Some books also may be read 
by deputy, and extracts made of them 
by others; but that would be only in the 
less important arguments, and the meaner 
sort of books; else distilled books are like 
common distilled waters, flashy things. [40 
Reading maketh a full man; conference 
a ready man; and writing an exact man. 
And therefore, if a man write little, he 
had need have a great memory; if he con- 
fer little, he had need have a present wit; 
and if he read little, he had need have 
much cunning, to seem to know that he 
doth not. Histories make men wise; 
poets witty; the mathematics subtile; 
natural philosophy deep; moral, grave; [50 
logic and rhetoric able to contend. Abeunt 
stiidia in mores. Nay, there is no stond 
or impediment in the wit, but may be 
wrought out by fit studies : like as diseases 
of the body may have appropriate exer- 
cises. Bowling is good for the stone and 
reins; shooting for the lungs and breast; 
gentle walking for the stomach; riding 
for the head; and the like. So if a man's 
wit be wandering, let him study the [60 
mathematics; for in demonstrations, if 
his wit be called away never so little, he 
must begin again: if his wit be not apt to 
distinguish or find differences, let him 
study the schoolmen; for they are cymini 
sectores: if he be not apt to beat over mat- 
ters, and to call up one thing to prove 
and illustrate another, let him study the 
lawyers' cases: so every defect of the mind 
may have a special receipt. [70 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



CAROLINE SONG WRITERS 

GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667) 

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die, because a woman's fair? 

Or make pale my cheeks with care, 

'Cause another's rosy are? 

Be she fairer than the day. 

Or the flow'ry meads in May, 

If she be not so to me, 

What care I how fair she be? 

Should my heart be grieved or pined, 

'Cause I see a woman kind? i 

Or a well disposed nature 

Joined with a lovely feature? 

Be she meeker, kinder than 

Turtle dove, or pelican. 

If she be not so to me, 15 

What care I how kind she be? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love? 
Or her well deserving known. 
Make me quite forget mine own? 20 

Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of best, 
If she be not such to me, 
What care I how good she be? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 25 

Shall I play the fool and die? 

Those that bear a noble mind. 

Where they want of riches find. 

Think, "What, with them, they would 

do 
That, without them, dare to woo!" 30 
And unless that mind I see. 
What care I though great she be? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair! 



If she love me (this believe !) 
I will die, ere she shall grieve; 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn, and let her go; 
For if she be not for me. 
What care I for whom she be? 



35 



40 



THOMAS CAREW (1598?-1639?) 

ASK ME NO MORE WHERE JOVE 
BESTOWS 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose; 
For in your beauty's orient deep 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 5 

The golden atoms of the day. 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich youF hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past; 10 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night, 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 15 
Fixed become as in their sphere.' 

Ask me no more if east or west 

The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 

For unto you at last she flies, 

And in your fragrant bosom dies. 20 



HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK 

He that loves a rosy cheek 

Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires; 
As old Time makes these decay, s 
So his flames must waste away. 



115 



ii6 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 

Kindle never-dying fires; lo 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall win 

My resolved heart to return; 
I have searched thy soul within 15 

And find naught but pride and scorn; 
I have learned thy arts, and now 
Can disdain as much as thou. 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING (1609-1642) 
CONSTANCY 

Out upon it, I have loved 
Three whole days together! 

And am like to love three more. 
If it prove fair weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 
Is due at all to me: : 

Love with me had made no stays, 
Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she, 

And that very face. 
There had been at least ere this ] 

A dozen dozen in her place. 



WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND 
LOVER? 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prithee, why so pale? 
Will, when looking well can't move her. 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prithee, why so pale? 5 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prithee, why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Sajdng nothing do 't? 

Prithee, why so mute? 10 



Quit, quit for shame ! This will not move, 

This cannot take her. 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her: 

The devil take her! 15 



RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658) 

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE 
WARS 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 5 

The first foe in the field; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore; 10 

I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not honor more. 



TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON 

When Love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
x'Vnd my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fettered to her eye, 
The gods that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

« 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames. i 

Our careless heads with roses bound. 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. 

When healths and draughts go free. 
Fishes that tipple in the deep i 

Know no such liberty. 

When, like committed^ linnets, I 
With shriller throat shall sing 

The sweetness, mercy, majesty. 

And glories of my king; 2 

1 caged. 



HERRICK 



117 



When I shall voice aloud how good 
He is, how great should be, 

Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 
Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 25 

Nor iron bars a cage; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 30 

Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 



JAMES SHIRLEY (1596-1666) 

A DIRGE 

The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armor against fate; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings: 

Sceptre and crown 5 

Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field. 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; 10 
But their strong nerves at last must yield; 
They tame but one another still: 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 16 

The garlands wither on your brow; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 

See where the victor- victim bleeds: 20 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 



ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674) 

THE ARGUMENT OF HIS BOOK 

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and 

bowers. 
Of April, May, of June and July-flowers ; 



I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, 

wakes. 
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal 

cakes ; 
I write of youth, of love, and have access 5 
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness; 
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece, 
Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris; 
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write 
How roses first came red and lilies white; 
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing n 
The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King; 
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall) 
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all. 



UPON THE LOSS OF HIS 
MISTRESSES 

I have lost, and lately, these 
Many dainty mistresses: 
Stately Julia, prime of all; 
Sapho next, a principal; 
Smooth Anthea, for a skin 
White and heaven-like crystalline; 
Sweet Electra, and the choice 
Myrha, for the lute and voice. 
Next, Corinna, for her wit. 
And the graceful use of it; 
With Perilla: all are gone. 
Only Herrick's left alone. 
For to number sorrow by 
Their departures hence, and die. 



CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING 

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming 
morn 

Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colors through the air: 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 5 

The dew bespangling herb and tree. 

Each flower has wept and bowed toward 
the east 

Above an hour since : yet you not dressed ; 
Nay I not so much as out of bed ? 
When all the birds have matins said 10 
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin. 
Nay, profanation, to keep in, 

Whenas a thousand \drgins on this day 

Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in 
May. 



ii8 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen 15 
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh 
and green. 
And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
For jewels for your gown or hair: 
Fear not; the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you: 20 

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, 
Against you come, some orient pearls un- 
wept; 
Come and receive them while the light 
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: 
And Titan'^ on the eastern hill 25 

Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief 

in praying: 
Few beads^ are best when once we go a- 
Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, 

mark 
How each field turns a street, each street 
a park 30 

Made green and trimmed with trees; 

see how 
Devotion gives each house a bough 
Or branch: each porch, each door ere 

this 
An ark, a tabernacle is, 
Made up of white-thorn, neatly inter- 
, wove; 35 

As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields and we not see't? 
Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey 
The proclamation made for May: 40 
And sin no more, as we have done, by 

staying ;_ 
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 

There's not a budding boy or girl this day 

But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 

A deal of youth, ere this, is come 45 

Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 

Some have despatched their cakes and 

cream 
Before that we have left to dream: 
And some have wept, and wooed, and 

plighted troth, 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off 
sloth: 50 

Many a green-gown has been given; 
Many a kiss, both odd and even: 

1 the sun. - prayers. 



Many a glance too has been sent 
From out the eye, love's firmament; 
Many a jest told of the keys betraying 55 
This night, and locks picked, yet we're 
not a-Maying. 

Come, let us go while we are in our prime; 

And take the harmless folly of the time. 
We shall grow old apace, and die 
Before we know our liberty. 60 

Our life is short, and our days run 
As fast away as does the sun; 

And, as a vapor or a drop of rain. 

Once lost, can ne'er be found again. 
So when or you or I are made 65 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 
All love, all liking, all delight 
Lies drowned with us in endless night. 

Then while time serves, and we are but 
decaying. 

Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a- 
Maying. 70 



TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH 
OF TIME 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day. 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 5 

The higher he's a-getting. 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best which is the first, 

When youth and blood are warmer; 10 

But being spent, the worse and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
And while ye may, go marry; 

For, having lost but once your prime, 15 
You may forever tarry. 



HOW ROSES CAME RED 

Roses at first were white. 
Till they could not agree. 

Whether my Sapho's breast 
Or they more white should be. 



HERRICK 



119 



But being vanquished quite, 5 

A blush their cheeks bespread; 

Since which, beUeve the rest, 
The roses first came red. 

TO DAFFODILS 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has not attained his noon. 

Stay, stay, 5 

Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-song; 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 10 

We have short time to stay as you; 

We have as short a spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you, or anything. 

We die 15 

As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew. 
Ne'er to be found again. 20 

NIGHT-PIECE, TO JULIA 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee; 

And the elves also. 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 5 

No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mis-light thee, 
Nor snake nor slow- worm bite thee; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there's none to affright thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber; n 

What though the moon does slumber? 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 15 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee. 
Thus, thus, to come unto me; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 20 



UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes. 

Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows 

The liquefaction of her clothes. 

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see 
That brave vibration, each way free, 5 
Oh, how that glittering taketh me ! 



AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON 

Ah, Ben! 

Say how or when 

Shall we, thy guests. 

Meet at those lyric feasts, 

Made at the Sun, 5 

The Dog, the Triple Tun; 

Where we such clusters had, 

As made us nobly wild, not mad? 

And yet each verse of thine 

Out-did the meat out-did the frolic wine. 



My Ben! 

Or come again. 

Or send to us 

Thy wit's great overplus; 

But teach us yet 

Wisely to husband it. 

Lest we that talent spend; 

And having once brought to an end 

That precious stock, the store 

Of such a wit the world should have 



15 



no 



more. 



GRACE FOR A CHILD 

Here, a little child, I stand, 

Heaving up my either hand: 

Cold as paddocks though they be, 

Here I Hft them up to thee. 

For a benison to fall 5 

On our meat, and on us all. Amen. 



TO KEEP A TRUE LENT 

Is this a fast, to keep 
The larder lean, 
And clean 
From fat of veals and sheep? 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Is it to quit the dish 5 

Of flesh, yet still 
To fill 
The platter high with fish? 

Is it to fast an hour, 

Or ragg'd to go, lo 

Or show 
A downcast look, and sour? 

No; 'tis a fast, to dole 

Thy sheaf of wheat 

And meat 15 

Unto the hungry soul. 

It is to fast from strife. 
From old debate. 
And hate; 
To circumcise thy life. 20 

To show a heart grief- rent; 
To starve thy sin. 
Not bin; 
And that's to keep thy Lent. 

GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633) 
VIRTUE 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky, 

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 5 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 

Thy root is ever in its grave, 
And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 10 

My music shows ye have your closes. 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 

But though the whole world turn to coal, 15 
Then chiefly lives. 

THE COLLAR 

I struck the board, and cried, "No more; 

I will abroad! 
What! shall I ever sigh and pine? 



My lines and life are free; free as the road. 
Loose as the wind, as large as store. ^ 5 

Shall I be still in suit? 
Have I no harvest but a thorn 
To let me blood, and not restore 
What I have lost with cordiaP fruit? 

Sure there was wine 10 

Before my sighs did dry it; there was 
corn 
Before my tears did drown it; 
Is the year only lost to me? 
Have I no bays to crown it. 
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, 15 
All wasted? 
Not so, my heart; but there is fruit. 
And thou hast hands. 
Recover all thy sigh-blown age 
On double pleasures; leave thy cold dis- 
pute 20 
Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage, 

Thy rope of sands 
Which petty thoughts have made, and 
made to thee 
Good cable, to enforce and draw. 

And be thy law, 25 

While thou didst wink^ and wouldst not 
see. 
Away! take heed! 
I will abroad. 
Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy 
fears : 
He that forbears 30 

To suit and serve his need 
Deserves his load." 
But as I raved, and grew more fierce and 
wild 
At every word, 
Methought I heard one calling, " Child ! ' ' 
And I replied, " My Lord ! " 36 



THE QUIP 

The merry World did on a day 

With his train-bands and mates agree 

To meet together where I lay, 
And all in sport to jeer at me. 

First Beauty crept into a rose, 5 

Which when I plucked not, "Sir," said 
she, 

"Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those? " 
But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 

1 plenty. ^ revivifying. ^ shut the eyes. 



CRASH AW 



121 



Then Money came, and chinking still, 
"What tune is this, poor man?" said he; 

"I heard in music you had skill;" n 

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. 

Then came brave Glory puffing by 
In silks that whistled, who but he! 

He scarce allowed me half an eye; 15 

But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 

Then came quick Wit and Conversation, 
And he would needs a comfort be, 

And, to be short, make an oration: 

But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. 20 

Yet when the hour of Thy design 
To answer these fine things shall come. 

Speak not at large; say, I am Thine, 
And then they have their answer home. 



THE PULLEY 

When God at first made man. 
Having a glass of blessings standing by; 
"Let us," said He, "pour on him all we 
can: 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed 
lie. 
Contract into a span." 5 

So Strength first made a way; 
Then Beauty flowed; then Wisdom, Honor, 
Pleasure. 
When almost all was out, God made a 
stay. 
Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure. 
Rest in the bottom lay. 10 

"For if I should," said He, 
" Bestow this jewel also on My creature. 
He would adore My gifts instead of 
Me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Na- 
ture; 
So both should losers be. 15 

"Yet let him keep the rest. 
But keep them with repining restless- 
ness; 
Let him be rich and weary, that at 
least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
May toss him to i\Iy breast." 20 



RICHARD CRASHAW (1613?-1649) 

IN THE HOLY NATIVITY OF OUR 
LORD GOD 

a hymn sung as by the shepherds 

Chorus 

Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight 
Hath met Love's noon in Nature's night; 
Come, lift we up our loftier song 
And wake the sun that lies too long. 

To all our world of well-stolen joy 5 
He slept, and dreamt of no such thing. 

While we found out heaven's fairer eye 
And kissed the cradle of our King. 

Tell him he rises now too late 
To show us aught worth looking at. 10 

Tell him we now can show him more 
Than he e'er showed to mortal sight, 

Than he himself e'er saw before. 
Which to be seen needs not his light. 

Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been 
Tell him, Thyrsis, what th' hast seen. t6 

Tityrus. Gloomy night embraced the 

place 
Where the noble Infant lay. 

The Babe looked up and showed His 
face; 
In spite of darkness, it was day. 20 

It was Thy day. Sweet! and did rise 
Not from the east, but from Thine eyes. 

Chorus. It was Thy day, Sweet, etc. 

Thyrsis. Winter chid aloud, and sent 
The angry North to wage his wars; 25 

The North forgot his fierce intent, 
And left perfumes instead of scars. 

By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers. 
Where he meant frost he scattered flowers. 



Cho. By those sweet eyes, etc. 



30 



Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest. 
Young dawn of our eternal Day; 

We saw Thine eyes break from their east 
And chase the trembling shades away. 

We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, 35 
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. 



122 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Tit. Poor world, said I, what wilt thou 

do 
To entertain this starry Stranger? 

Is this the best thou canst bestow — 
A cold, and not too cleanly, manger? 40 
Contend, the powers of heaven and 
earth, 
To fit a bed for this huge birth ! 

Cho. Contend, the powers, etc. 

Thyr. Proud world, said I, cease your 

contest. 
And let the mighty Babe alone; 45 

The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest. 
Love's architecture is his own; 

The Babe whose birth embraves this 
morn, 
Made His own bed e'er He was born. 



Cho. The Babe whose, etc. 



50 



Tit. I saw the curled drops, soft and slow. 
Come hovering o'er the place's head. 

Offering their whitest sheets of snow 
To furnish the fair Infant's bed. 

Forbear, said I; be not too bold; 55 

Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold. 

Cho. Forbear, said I, etc. 

Thyr. I saw the obsequious seraphim 
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow. 

For well they now can spare their wing 
Since Heaven itself lies here below. 61 

Well done, said I; but are you sure 
Your down so warm, will pass for pure? 

Cho. Well done, said I, etc. 

Tit. No, no, your King's not yet to seek 65 
Where to repose His royal head; 

See, see how soon His nev/-bloomed 
cheek 
'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed! 

Sweet choice, said we; no way but so 
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow. 70 

Cho. Sweet choice, said we, etc. 

Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, 
Bright dawn of our eternal Day; 

We saw Thine eyes break from their 
east 



And chase the trembling shades away. 75 

We saw Thee, and we blest the sight. 
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet Light. 

Cho. We saw Thee, etc. 

Full Chorus 

Welcome, all wonders in one sight! 
Eternity shut in a span! 80 

Summer in winter! day in night! 
Heaven in earth! and God in man! 

Great little one, whose all-embracing 
birth 
Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to 
earth ! 

Welcome, though nor to gold nor silk, 85 
To more than Caesar's birthright is; 

Two sister-seas of virgin-milk 
With many a rarely-tempered kiss, 

That breathes at once both maid and 
mother, 
Warms in the one, cools in the other. 90 

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips 
Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; 

She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips 
That in their buds yet blushing lie; 

She 'gainst those mother-diamonds tries 
The points of her young eagle's eyes. 96 

Welcome, though not to those gay flies 
Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings. 

Slippery souls in smiling eyes — 
But to poor shepherds, homespun things. 

Whose wealth's their flock, whose wit, 
to be 1 01 

Well read in their simplicity. 

Yet, when young April's husband 
showers 
Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed. 

We'll bring the first-born of her flowers 

To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. 106 

To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love 

must keep 

The shepherds, more than they the sheep. 

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King 
Of simple graces and sweet loves, no 

Each of us his lamb will bring, 
Each his pair of silver doves; 

Till burnt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes, 
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice I 



VAUGHAN 



123 



HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695) 

THE RETREAT 

Happy those early days, when I 

Shined in my angel-infancy; 

Before I understood this place 

Appointed for my second race, 

Or taught my soul to fancy ought 5 

But a white, celestial thought; 

When yet I had not walked above 

A mile or two from my first love, 

And looking back — at that short space — 

Could see a glimpse of His bright face; 10 

When on some gilded cloud or flower 

My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 

And in those weaker glories spy 

Some shadows of eternity; 

Before I taught my tongue to wound 15 

My conscience with a sinful sound, 

Or had the black art to dispense, 

A several sin to every sense. 

But felt through all this fleshly dress 

Bright shoots of everlastingness. 20 

how I long to travel back, 
And tread again that ancient track! 
That I might once more reach that plain. 
Where first I left my glorious train; 
From whence the enlightened spirit sees 25 
That shady city of palm trees. 
But ah! my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way! 
Some men a forward motion love. 
But I by backward steps would move; 30 
And when this dust falls to the urn. 
In that state I came, return. 



PEACE 

My soul, there is a country 

Afar beyond the stars. 
Where stands a winged sentry 

All skilful in the wars. 
There, above noise and danger, 5 

Sweet Peace sits crowned wth smiles. 
And one born in a manger 

Commands the beauteous files. 
He is thy gracious friend, 

And^D my soul, awake! — 10 

Did in pure Io\-e descend 

To die here for thv sake. 



If thou canst get but thither, 

There grows the flower of peace. 
The rose that can not wither, 

Thy fortress and thy ease. 
Leave then thy foolish ranges, 

For none can thee secure 
But one who never changes. 

Thy God, thy life, thy cure. 



THE WORLD 

I saw Eternity the other night. 

Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 

All calm, as it was bright; 
And round beneath it, Time, in hours, 
days, years, 
Driv'n by the spheres 5 

Like a vast shadow moved; in which the 
world 
And all her train were huried. 
The doting lover in his quaintest strain 

Did there complain; 
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his 
flights, 10 

Wit's four delights. 
With gloves and knots, the silly snares of 
pleasure ; 
Yet his dear treasure. 
All scattered lay, while he his eyes did 
pour 
Upon a flower. 15 

The darksome statesman, hung with 

weights and woe, 
Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so 
slow. 
He did not stay nor go; 
Condemning thoughts, Hke sad ecUpses, 
scowl 
Upon his soul, 20 

And clouds of crying witnesses without 

Pursued him with one shout; 
Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be 
found, 
Worked under ground, 
Where he did clutch his prey. But one 
did see 
That policy: 
Churches and altars fed him ; perjuries 

Were gnats and flies; 
It rained about him blood and tears, but he 
Drank them as free. 30 



25 



124 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



The fearful miser on a heap of rust 
Sat pining all his life there, did scarce 
trust 
His own hands with the dust, 
Yet would not place one piece above, but 
lives 
In fear of thieves. 35 

Thousands there were as frantic as him- 
self, 
And hugged each one his pelf; 
The downright epicure placed heaven in 
sense, 
And scorned pretence; 
While others, sUpped into a ^^ide ex- 
cess, 40 
Said little less; 
The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares en- 
slave. 
Who think them brave; 
And poor, despised Truth sat counting by 
Their \'ictory. 45 

Yet some, who all this while did weep and 

sing, 
And sing and weep, soared up into the 
ring; 
But most would use no wing. 
O fools, said I, thus to prefer dark night 
Before true light! 50 

To live in grots and caves, and hate the 
day 
Because it shows the way. 
The way, which from this dead and dark 
abode 
Leads up to God; 
A way where you might tread the sun, and 
be 55 

More bright than he! 
But, as I did their madness so discuss, 

One whispered thus: 
"This ring the Bridegroom did for none 
provide 
But for his bride." 60 



EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687) 

ON A GIRDLE 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind; 
No monarch but would give his crown. 
His arms might do what this has done. 



It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 5 
The pale which held that lovely deer; 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass, and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair; 10 
Give me but what this ribband bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round! 



GO, LOVELY ROSE! 

Go, lovely rose! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows. 

When I resemble her to thee, • 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. 5 

Tell her that's young, 

And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That hadst thou sprung 

In deserts, where no men abide, 

Thou must have uncommended died. 10 

Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired; 

Bid her come forth. 

Suffer herself to be desired, 

And not blush so to be admired. 15 

Then die! that she 

The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee; 

How small a part of time they share 

That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 20 



ANDREW MARVELL (1621-16781 

AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROM- 
WELL'S RETURN FROM IRE- 
LAND 

The forward youth that would appear 
Must now forsake his muses dear. 

Nor in the shadows sing 

His numbers languishing: 

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 5 
And oil the unused armor's rust, 

Remo\'ing from the wall 

The corselet of the hall. 



MARVELL 



125 



So restless Cromwell would not cease 

In the inglorious arts of peace, 10 

But through adventurous war 

Urged his active star; 

And, like the three-forked lightning, first 
Breaking the clouds where it was nursed. 

Did thorough his own side 15 

His fiery way divide; 

For 'tis all one to courage high, 
The emulous, or enemy, 

And with such to inclose, 

Is more than to oppose. 20 

Then burning through the air he went. 
And palaces and temples rent; 

And Caesar's head at last 

Did through his laurels blast. 



'Tis madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry heaven's flame; 
And if we would speak true. 
Much to the man is due, 

Who from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere. 

As if his highest plot 

To plant the bergamot,^ 

Could by industrious valor climb 
To ruin the great work of Time, 

And cast the kingdoms old. 

Into another mould. 



25 



30 



35 



Though Justice against Fate complain, 
And plead the ancient rights in vain; 

But those do hold or break. 

As men are strong or weak. 40 

Nature, that hateth emptiness, 
Allows of penetration less, 

And therefore must make room 

Where greater spirits come. 

What field of all the civil war, 45 

Where his were not the deepest scar? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art; 

Where, twdning subtle fears with hope. 
He wove a net of such a scope 50 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Caresbrooke's narrow case, 

■ a kind of pear. 



55 



60 



65 



70 



That thence the royal actor borne 
The tragic scaffold might adorn. 
While round the armed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands. 

He nothing common did, or mean, 
Upon that memorable scene. 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did try; 

Nor called the gods with vulgar spite 
To vindicate his helpless right,- 

But bowed his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 

This was that memorable hour. 
Which first assured the forced power; 

So, when they did design 

The Capitol's first line, 

A bleeding head, where they begun. 
Did fright the architects to run; 

And yet in that the state 

Foresaw its happy fate. 

And now the Irish are ashamed 
To see themselves in one year tamed; 
So much one man can do. 
That does both act and know. 



They can afl&rm his praises best, 

And have, though overcome, confessed 

How good he is, how just. 

And fit for highest trust; 80 

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 
But still in the republic's hand, 

How fit he is to sway. 

That can so well obey! 

He to the Commons' feet presents 85 

A kingdom for his first year's rents; 

And, what he may, forbears 

His fame, to make it theirs; 

And has his sword and spoils ungirt. 

To lay them at the public's skirt: 90 

So when the falcon high 

Falls heavy from the sky, 

She, having killed, no more doth search, 
But on the next green bough to perch; 

Where, when he first does lure, 95 

The falconer has her sure. 



126 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



What may not then our isle presume, 
While victory his crest does plume? 

What may not others fear, 

If thus he crowns each year? loo 

As Caesar, he, ere long, to Gaul, 
To Italy a Hannibal, 

And to all states not free 

Shall climacteric be. 

The Pict^ no shelter now shall find 105 
Within his parti-colored mind. 

But, from this valor sad," 

Shrink underneath the plaid; 

Happy if in the tufted brake 

The English hunter him mistake, no 

Nor lay his hounds in near 

The Caledonian deer. 

But thou, the war's and Fortune's son, 
March undefatigably on; 

And for the least effect, ns 

Still keep the sword erect; 

Besides the force it has to fright 
The spirits of the shady night, 

The same arts that did gain 

A power, must it maintain. 120 

ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1667) 

THE CHANGE 

Love in her sunny eyes does basking play; 
Love walks the pleasant mazes of her 
hair; 
Love does on both her lips forever stray, 
And sows and reaps a thousand kisses 
there. 
In all her outward parts Love's always 
seen ; S 

But oh ! he never went within ! 

Within, Love's foes, his greatest foes, 
abide : 
Malice, Inconstancy, and Pride. 
So the earth's face trees, herbs, and 
flowers do dress, 
But with other beauties numberless; 10 
But at the center darkness is, and hell, 
There wicked spirits, and there the 
damned, dwell. 

1 Scot. ^ resolute. 



With me, alas, quite contrary it fares: 
Darkness and Death lies in my waking 
eyes; 
Despair and Paleness in my face ap)- 
pears,_ 15 

And Grief and Fear, Love's greatest 
enemies. 
But, like the Persian tyrant. Love within 
Keeps his proud court, and ne'er is seen. 

Oh take my heart, and by that means 
you'll prove 
Within, too, stored enough of Love; 20 
Give me but yours, I'll by that change so 
thrive 
That Love in all my parts shall live. 
So powerful is this change it render can 
My outside woman, and your inside, 
man. 



THE WISH 

Well then! I now do plainly see 
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. 
The very honey of all earthly joy 
Does of all meats the soonest cloy; 

And they, methinks, deserve my pity 5 
Who for it can endure the stings, 
The crowd and buzz and murmurings, 

Of this great hive, the city. 

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave 
May I a small house and large garden 
have, 10 

And a few friends, and many books, both 

true. 
Both wise, and both delightful too! 

And since love ne'er will from me flee, 
A mistress moderately fair. 
And good as guardian angels are, 15 

Only beloved, and loving me. 

O fountains! when in you shall I 
Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, 

espy? 
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be 

made 
The happy tenant of your shade? 20 

Here's the spring-head of pleasure's 

flood: 
Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, 
Where all the riches lie that she 
Has coined and stamped for good. 



COWLEY 



127 



Pride and ambition here ^5 

Only in far-fetched metaphors appear; 
Here naught but winds can hurtful mur- 
murs scatter, 
And naught but Echo flatter. 

The gods, when they descended, hither 
From heaven did always choose their way: 
And therefore we may boldly say 31 

That 'tis the way, too, thither. 

How happy here should I 
And one dear She live, and embracing die! 
She who is all the world, and can exclude 
In deserts solitude. 36 

I should have then this only fear: 
Lest men, when they my pleasures see, 
Should hither throng to live like me, 

And so make a city here. 40 



THE SWALLOW 

Foolish Prater, what do'st thou 
So early at my window do 
With thy tuneless serenade? 
Well 't had been had Tereus made 
Thee as dumb as Philomel: 
There his knife had done but well. 
In thy undiscovered nest 
Thou dost all the winter rest, 
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys, 
Free from the stormy season's noise : i 
Free from th' ill thou'st done to me; 
Who disturbs, or seeks out thee? 
Had'st thou all the charming notes 
Of the wood's poetic throats, 
All thy art could never pay 15 

What thou'st ta'en from me away; 
Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away 
A dream out of my arms to-day, 
A dream that ne'er must equalled be 
By all that waking eyes may see. 20 

Thou this damage to repair, 
Nothing half so sweet or fair. 
Nothing half so good can'st bring, 
Though men say, ''Thou bring'st the 
spring?" 

THE THIEF 

Thou robbest my days of business and 
delights, 
Of sleep thou robbest my nights; 



Ah, lovely thief, what wilt thou do? 
What, rob me of Heaven too? 
Thou even my prayers dost steal from 
me, 5 

And I, with wild idolatry, 
Begin to God, and end them all to thee. 

Is it a sin to love, that it should thus 
Like an ill conscience, torture us? 
Whate'er I do, where e'er I go, 10 
(None guiltless e'er was haunted so) 
Still, still, methinks thy face I view. 
And still thy shape does me pursue, 

As if not you me, but I had murdered you. 

From books I strive some remedy to take. 
But thy name all the letters make; 16 
Whate'er 'tis writ, I find that there, 
Like points and commas everywhere. 
Me blest for this let no man hold; 
For I, as Midas did of old, 20 

Perish by turning everything to gold. 

What do I seek, alas, or why do I 

Attempt in vain from thee to fly? 
For making thee my deity 
I give thee then ubiquity. 25 

My pains resemble hell in this: 
The divine presence there too is, 

But to torment men, not to give them 
bliss. 



CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF 
DORSET (1638-1706) 

SONG 

To all you ladies now at land 

We men at sea indite; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write : 
The Muses now, and Neptune too, 3 

We must implore to write to you — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

For though the Muses should prove kind, 

And fill our empty brain. 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind 10 

To wave the azure main, 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, 
Roll up and down our ships at sea — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 



128 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Then if we write not by each post, 15 

Think not we are unkind; 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind: 
Our tears we'll send a speedier way, 
The tide shall bring them twice a day — 20 
With a fa, la, la, la, la ! 

The King with wonder and surprise 
Will swear the seas grow bold. 

Because the tides will higher rise 
Than e'er they did of old; 25 

But let him know it is our tears 

Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story, 30 

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe. 

And quit their fort at Goree; 
For what resistance can they find 
From men who've left their hearts be- 
hind?— 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 35 

Let wind and weather do its worst. 

Be you to us but kind; 
Let Dutchmen vapor, ^ Spaniards curse. 

No sorrow we shall find; 
'Tis then no matter how things go, 40 
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la ! 

To pass our tedious hours away 

We throw a merry main. 
Or else at serious ombre- play; 45 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue? 
We were undone when we left you — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

But now our fears tempestuous grow 50 

And cast our hopes away. 
Whilst you, regardless of our w^oe, 

Sit careless at a play. 
Perhaps permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan — 55 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

When any mournful tune you hear 

That dies in every note. 
As if it sighed with each man's care 

For being so remote, 60 



boast. 



• a game of cards. 



Think then how often love we've made 
To you, when all those tunes were played — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la ! 



In justice you cannot refuse 

To think of our distress. 
When we for hopes of honor lose 

Our certain happiness: 
All those designs are but to prove 
Ourselves more worthy of your love 
With a fa, la, la, la, la ! 



65 



70 



And now we've told you all our loves, 

And likewise all our fears. 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity for our tears: 
Let's hear of no inconstancy — 75 

We have too much of that at sea — 
With a fa, la, la, la, la! 

CAROLINE PROSE 

SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-1682) 

From HYDRIOTAPHIA or 
URN BURIAL 

Now since these dead bones have 
already outlasted the living ones of Me- 
thusaleh, and, in a yard under ground 
and their walls of clay, outworn all the 
strong and specious buildings above it; 
and quietly rested under the drums and 
tramplings of three conquests: what 
prince can promise such diuturnity unto 
his relics, or might not gladly say, 

Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim? [10 

Time, which antiquates antiquities, and 
hath an art to make dust of all things, 
hath yet spared these minor monuments. 

In vain we hope to be known by open 
and visible conservatories, when to be 
unknown was the means of their continua- 
tion, and obscurity their protection. If 
they died by violent hands, and were 
thrust into their urns, these bones be- 
come considerable, and some old [20 
philosophers would honor them, whose 
souls they conceived most pure, which 
were thus snatched from their bodies, 
and to retain a stronger propension unto 
them; whereas they weariedly left a lan- 
guishing corpse, and with faint desires of 



BROWNE 



129 



reunion. If they fell by long and aged de- 
cay, yet wrapped up in the bundle of time, 
they fall into indistinction, and make but 
one blot with infants. If we begin to [30 
die when we live, and long life be but a 
prolongation of death, our life is a sad 
composition; we live with death, and 
die not in a moment. How many pulses 
made up the life of Methuselah, were 
work for Archimedes: common counters 
sum up the life of Moses his man. Our 
days become considerable, like petty 
sums, by minute accumulations; where 
numerous fractions make up but small [40 
round numbers; and our days of a span 
long, make not one little finger. 

If the nearness of our last necessity 
brought a nearer conformity into it, there 
were a happiness in hoary hairs, and no 
calamity in half-senses. But the long 
habit of living indispose th us for dying; 
when avarice makes us the sport of death, 
when even David grew politicly cruel, 
and Solomon could hardly be said to [50 
be the wisest of men. But many are too 
early old, and before the date of age. 
Adversity stretcheth our days, misery 
makes Alcmena's nights, and time hath no 
wings unto it. But the most tedious 
being is that which can unwish itself, 
content to be nothing, or never to have 
been, wliich was beyond the malcontent 
of Job, who cursed not the day of his life, 
but his nativity; content to have so [60 
far been, as to have title to future being, 
although he had lived here but in an 
hidden state of life, and as it were an 
abortion. 

What song the Sirens sang, or what 
name Achilles assumed when he hid 
himself among women, though puzzling 
questions, are not beyond all conjecture. 
What time the persons of these ossuaries 
entered the famous nations of the [70 
dead, and slept with princes and coun- 
sellors, might admit a wide solution. But 
who were the proprietaries of these bones, 
or what bodies these ashes made up, were 
a question above antiquarism; not to be 
resolved by man, nor easily perhaps by 
spirits, except we consult the provincial 
guardians, or tutelary observators. Had 
they made as good proxasion for their 
names as they have done for their [80 



relics, they had not so grossly erred in the 
art of perpetuation. But to subsist in 
bones, and be but pyramidally extant, is a 
fallacy in duration. Vain ashes, which, 
in the oblivion of names, persons, times 
and sexes, have found unto themselves 
a fruitless continuation, and only arise 
unto late posterity as emblems of mortal 
vanities, antidotes against pride, vain- 
glory, and madding vices ! Pagan vain- [90 
glories, which thought the world might 
last forever, had encouragement for am- 
bition; and finding no Atropos unto the 
immortality of their names, were never 
damped with the necessity of oblivion. 
Even old ambitions had the advantage of 
ours in the attempts of their vain-glories, 
who acting early, and before the probable 
meridian of time, have by this time found 
great accomplishment of their de- [100 
signs, whereby the ancient heroes have 
already out-lasted their monuments and 
mechanical preservations. But in this 
latter scene of time we cannot expect such 
mummies unto our memories, when ambi- 
tion may fear the prophecy of Elias; and 
Charles the Fifth can never hope to live 
within two Methuselahs of Hector. 

And therefore restless inquietude for 
the diuturnity of our memories unto [no 
present considerations seems a vanity al- 
most out of date, and superannuated 
piece of folly. We cannot hope to live 
so long in our names as some have done 
in their persons. One face of Janus holds 
no proportion to the other. 'Tis too late 
to be ambitious. The great mutations of 
the world are acted, or time may be too 
short for our designs. To extend our mem- 
ories by monuments, whose death we [120 
daily pray for, and whose duration we 
cannot hope without injury to our ex- 
pectations in the advent of the last day, 
were a contradiction to our beliefs. We, 
whose generations are ordained in this 
setting part of time, are providentially 
taken off from such imaginations; and, 
being necessitated to eye the remaining 
particle of futurity, are naturally con- 
stituted unto thoughts of the next [130 
world, and cannot excusably dechne the 
consideration of that duration which 
maketh pyramids pillars of snow, and all 
that's past a moment. 



1^0 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Circles and right lines limit and close 
all bodies, and the mortal right-lined 
circle must conclude and shut up all. 
There is no antidote against the opium 
of time, which temporally considereth all 
things: our fathers find their graves [140 
in our short memories, and sadly tell us 
how we may be buried in our survivors. 
Grave-stones tell truth scarce forty years. 
Generations pass while some trees stand, 
and old families last not three oaks. To 
be read by bare inscriptions, like many 
in Gruter, to hope for eternity by enig- 
matical epithets or first letters of our 
names, to be studied by antiquaries who 
we were, and have new names given [150 
us like many of the mummies, are cold 
consolations unto the students of per- 
petuity, even by everlasting languages. 

To be content that times to come 
should only know there was such a man, 
not caring whether they knew more of 
him, was a frigid ambition in Cardan, 
disparaging his horoscopal inclination 
and judgment of himself. Who cares 
to subsist like Hippocrates' patients, [160 
or Achilles' horses in Homer, under naked 
nominations, without deserts and noble 
acts, which are the balsam of our mem- 
ories, the entelechia and soul of our sub- 
sistences? To be nameless in worthy 
deeds exceeds an infamous histor}^ The 
Canaanitish woman lives more happily 
without a name, than Herodias with one. 
And who had not rather have been the 
good thief, than Pilate? [170 

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly 
scattereth her poppy, and deals with the 
memory of men without distinction to 
merit of perpetuity. Who can but pity 
the founder of the pyramids? Herostra- 
tus lives that burnt the temple of Diana; 
he is almost lost that built it. Time hath 
spared the epitaph of Adrian's horse, 
confounded that of himself. In vain we 
compute our felicities by the ad van- [180 
tage of our good names, since bad have 
equal durations; and Thersites is like to 
live as long as Agamemnon. Who knows 
whether the best of men be known, or 
whether there be not more remarkable 
persons forgot, than any that stand re- 
membered in the known account of time? 
Without the favor of the everlasting 



register the first man had been as un- 
known as the last, and Methuselah's [190 
long life had been his only chronicle. 

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater 
part must be content to be as though they 
had not been, to be found in the register 
of God, not in the record of man. Twenty- 
seven names make up the first story be- 
fore the flood, and the recorded names 
ever since contain not one living century. 
The number of the dead long exceedeth 
all that shall live. The night of time [200 
far surpasseth the day, and who knows 
when was the equinox? Every hour 
adds unto that current arithmetic, which 
scarce stands one moment. And since 
death must be the Lucina of life, and 
even pagans could doubt whether thus 
to live were to die; since our longest sun 
sets at right descensions, and makes but 
winter arches, and therefore it cannot be 
long before we lie down in darkness, [210 
and have our light in ashes; since the 
brother of death daily haunts us with 
d^dng mementos, and time, that grows 
old in itself, bids us hope no long duration: 
diuturnity is a dream and folly of ex- 
pectation. 

Darkness and light divide the course 
of time, and oblivion shares with memory 
a great part even of our li\'ing beings; we 
slightly remember our felicities, and [220 
the smartest strokes of affliction leave 
but short smart upon us. Sense endureth 
no extremities, and sorrows destroy us 
or themselves. To weep into stones are 
fables. Afflictions induce callosities; mis- 
eries are slippery, or fall like snow upon 
us, which notwithstanding is no unhappy 
stupidity. To be ignorant of evils to 
come, and forgetful of evils past, is a 
merciful provision in nature, whereby [230 
we digest the mixture of our few and evil 
days, and our delivered senses not relaps- 
ing into cutting remembrances, our sor- 
rows are not kept raw by the edge of 
repetitions. A great part of antiquity 
contented their hopes of subsistency with 
a transmigration of their souls, — a good 
way to continue their memories; while 
ha\'ing the advantage of plural succes- 
sions, they could not but act some- [240 
thing remarkable in such variety of beings, 
and enjoying the fame of their passed 



BROWNE 



131 



selves, make accumulation of glory unto 
their last durations. Others, rather than 
be lost in the uncomfortable night of 
nothing, were content to recede into the 
common being, and make one particle of 
the public soul of all things, which was 
no more than to return into their unknown 
and divine, original again. Egyp- [250 
tian ingenuity was more unsatisfied, con- 
triving their bodies in sweet consistencies 
to attend the return of their souls. But 
all was vanity, feeding the wind, and 
folly. The Egyptian mummies, which 
Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice 
now consumeth. Mummy is become mer- 
chandise, Mizraim cures wounds, and 
Pharaoh is sold for balsams. 

In vain do individuals hope for im- [260 
mortality, or any patent from oblivion, 
in preservations below the moon; men 
have been deceived even in their flat- 
teries above the sun, and studied conceits 
to perpetuate their names in heaven. 
The various cosmography of that part 
hath already varied the names of con- 
trived constellations; Nimrod is lost in 
Orion, and Osiris in the dog-star. While 
we look for incorruption in the heav- [270 
ens, we find they are but like the earth; 
durable in their main bodies, alterable in 
their parts: whereof, beside comets and 
new stars, perspectives begin to tell tales; 
and the spots that wander about the sun, 
with Phaethon's favor, would make clear 
conviction. 

There is nothing strictly immortal 
but immortality. Whatever hath no be- 
ginning may be confident of no end — [280 
which is the peculiar of that necessary 
essence that cannot destroy itself — and 
the highest strain of omnipotency, to be 
so powerfully constituted, as not to suffer 
even from the power of itself. All others 
have a dependent being and within the 
reach of destruction. But the sufficiency 
of Christian immortality frustrates all 
earthly glory, and the quality of either 
state after death makes a folly of post- [290 
humous memory. God, who can only 
destroy our souls, and hath assured our 
resurrection, either of our bodies or names 
hath directly promised no duration. 
Wherein there is so much of chance, that 
the boldest expectants have found un- 



happy frustration; and to hold long sub- 
sistence, seems but a scape in oblivion. 
But man is a noble animal, splendid 
in ashes, and pompous in the grave, [300 
solemnizing nativities and deaths with 
equal lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of 
bravery in the infamy of his nature. 

Life is a pure flame, and we live by an 
invisible sun within us. A small fire 
sufficeth for life; great flames seemed 
too little after death, wliile men vainly 
affected precious pyres, and to burn 
like Sardanapalus. But the wisdom of 
funeral laws found the folly of prodigal [310 
blazes, and reduced undoing fires unto 
the rule of sober obsequies, wherein few 
could be so mean as not to provide wood, 
pitch, a mourner, and an urn. 

Five languages secured not the epitaph 
of Gordianus. The man of God lives 
longer without a tomb than any by one, 
invisibly interred by angels, and adjudged 
to obscurity, though not without some 
marks directing human discovery. [320 
Enoch and Elias, without either tomb or 
burial, in an anomalous state of being, are 
the great examples of perpetuity in their 
long and living memory, in strict account 
being still on this side death, and having 
a late part yet to act upon this stage of 
earth. If in the decretory term of the 
world we shall not all die, but be changed, 
according to received translation, the 
last day "will make but few graves; [330 
at least quick resurrections will antic- 
ipate lasting sepultures. Some graves 
will be opened before they be quite closed, 
and Lazarus be no wonder, when many 
that feared to die shall groan that they 
can die but once. The dismal state is 
the second and living death, when life 
puts despair on the damned; when men 
shall wish the coverings of mountains, 
not of monuments, and annihilations [340 
shall be courted. 

While some have studied monuments, 
others have studiously declined them, and 
some have been so vainly boisterous that 
they durst not acknowledge their graves; 
wherein Alaricus seems most subtle, who 
had a river turned to hide his bones at 
the bottom. Even Sylla, that thought 
himself safe in his urn, could not prevent 
revenging tongues, and stones thrown [350 



132 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



at his monument. Happy are they whom 
privacy makes innocent, who deal so 
with men in this world, that they are not 
afraid to meet them in the next; who, 
when they die, make no commotion among 
the dead, and are not touched with that 
poetical taunt of Isaiah. 



To subsist in lasting monuments, to 
live in their productions, to exist in their 
names and predicament' of chimeras, [360 
was large satisfaction unto old expecta- 
tions, and made one part of their Elysiums. 
But all this is nothing in the metaphysics 
of true belief. To live indeed, is to be 
again ourselves, which bemg not only 
an hope, but an e\ddence in noble be- 
lievers, 'tis all one to lie in St. Innocent's 
churchyard, as in the sands of Egypt. 
Ready to be anything, in the ecstasy 
of being ever, and as content with [370 
sLx foot as the moles of Adrianus. 



THOMAS FULLER (1608-1661) 
THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER 

From The Holy State 

There is scarce any profession in the 
commonwealth more necessary, which is 
so slightly performed. The reasons 
whereof I conceive to be these: First, 
young scholars make this calling their 
refuge; yea, perchance before they have 
taken any degree in the uni^Trsity, com- 
mence schoolmasters in the country, as if 
nothing else were required to set up this 
profession, but only a rod and a [10 
ferula. Secondly, others, who are able, 
use it only as a passage to better prefer- 
ment, to patch the rents in their present 
fortune till they can pro\'ide a new one, 
and betake themselves to some more 
gainful calling. Thirdly, they are dis- 
heartened from doing their best with the 
miserable reward which in some places 
they receive, being masters to their chil- 
dren and slaves to their parents. [20 
Fourthly, being grown rich, they grow 
negligent, and scorn to touch the school 
but by the proxy of an usher. But see 



how well our schoolmaster behaves him- 
self. 

His genius inclines him with delight 
to his profession. Some men had as lief 
be schoolboys as schoolmasters, to be 
tied to the school, as Cooper's "Dic- 
tionary" and Scapula's "Lexicon" [30 
are chained to the desk therein; and 
though great scholars, and skilful in other 
arts, are bunglers in this: but God of His 
goodness hath fitted several men for 
several callings, that the necessity of 
Church and State in all conditions may 
be provided for. So that he who beholds 
the fabric thereof may say, "God hewed 
out this stone, and appointed it to lie in 
this very place, for it would fit none [40 
other so well, and here it doth most ex- 
cellent." And thus God mouldeth some 
for a schoolmaster's life, undertaking it 
with desire and delight, and discharging 
it with dexterity and happy success. 

He studieth his scholars' natures as 
carefully as they their books, and ranks 
their dispositions into several forms. And 
though it may seem difficult for him in a 
great school to descend to all par- [50 
ticulars, yet experienced schoolmasters 
may quickly make a grammar of boys' 
natures, and reduce them all, sa\ang some 
few exceptions, to these general rules: 

1. Those that are ingenious and indus- 
trious. The conjunction of two such 
planets in a youth presages much good 
unto him. To such a lad a frown may be 
a whipping, and a whipping a death; yea, 
where their master whips them once, [60 
shame whips them all the week after. 
Such natures he useth with all gentleness. 

2. Those that are ingenious and idle. 
These think, with the hare in the fable, 
that running with snails (so they count 
the rest of their schoolfellows) they shall 
come soon enough to the post, though 
sleeping a good while before their starting. 
Oh, a good rod would finely take them 
napping! [70 

3. Those that are dull and diligent. 
Wines, the stronger they be, the more 
lees they have when they are new. Many 
boys are muddy-headed till they be clari- 
fied with age, and such afterwards prove 
the best. Bristol diamonds are both 
bright and squared and pointed by nature, 



FULLER 



133 



and yet are soft and worthless; whereas, 
orient ones in India are rough and rugged 
naturally. Hard, rugged, and dull [80 
natures of youth acquit themselves after- 
wards the jewels of the country, and 
therefore their dullness at first is to be 
borne with, if they be diligent. That 
schoolmaster deserves to be beaten him- 
self who beats nature in a boy for a fault. 
And I question whether all the whipping 
in the world can make their parts, which 
are naturally sluggish, rise one minute 
Lefore the hour nature hath appointed. [90 

4. Those that are invincibly dull, and 
negligent also. Correction may reform 
the latter, not amend the former. All 
the whetting in the world can never set a 
razor's edge on that which hath no steel 
in it. Such boys he consigneth over to 
other professions. Shipwrights and boat- 
makers will choose those crooked pieces 
of timber which other carpenters refuse. 
Those may make excellent merchants [100 
and mechanics who will not serve for 
scholars. 

He is able, diligent, and methodical in 
his teaching; not leading them rather in 
a circle than forwards. He minces his 
precepts for children to swallow, hanging 
clogs on the nimbleness of his own soul, 
that his scholars may go along with him. 

He is, and will be known to be, an ab- 
solute monarch in his school. If [no 
cockering mothers proffer him money to 
purchase their sons an exemption from his 
rod (to live as it were in a peculiar, out 
of their master's jurisdiction), with dis- 
dain he refuseth it, and scorns the late 
custom in some places of commuting 
whipping into money, and ransoming boys 
from the rod at a set price. If he hath a 
stubborn youth, correction-proof, he de- 
baseth not his authority by contesting [120 
with him, but fairly, if he can, puts him 
away before his obstinacy hath infected 
others. 

He is moderate in inflicting deserved 
correction. Many a schoolmaster better 
answereth the name 7rai8orpt)37ys than 
TratSaywyos, rather tearing his scholars' 
flesh with whipping than giving them 
good education. No wonder if his scholars 
hate the Muses, being presented unto [130 
them in the shapes of fiends and furies. 



Junius complains de insolenti carnificina 
of his schoolmaster, by whom conscinde- 
balur flagris septies aul odies in dies sin- 
gulos. Yea, hear the lamentable verses of 
poor Tusser in his own life: 

"From Paul's I went, to Eton sent. 
To learn straightways the Latin phrase, 
Where fifty-three stripes given to me 

At once I had. [140 

"For fault but small, or none at all, 
It came to pass thus beat I was; 
See Udall, see the mercy of thee 

To me, poor lad." 

Such an Orbilius mars more scholars 
than he makes: their tyranny hath caused 
many tongues to stammer, which spake 
plain by nature, and whose stuttering at 
first was nothing else but fears quavering 
on their speech at their master's [150 
presence; and whose mauling them about 
their heads hath dulled those who, in 
quickness, exceeded their master. 

He makes his school free to him who 
sues to him in forma pauperis. And surely 
learning is the greatest alms that can be 
given. But he is a beast who, because the 
poor scholar cannot pay him his wages, 
pays the scholar in his whipping. Rather 
are diligent lads to be encouraged [160 
with all excitements to learning. This 
minds me of what I have heard concerning 
Mr. Bust, that worthy late schoolmaster 
of Eton, who would never suffer any 
wandering begging scholar (such as justly 
the statute hath ranked in the forefront 
of rogues) to come into his school, but 
would thrust him out with earnestness 
(however privately charitable unto him), 
lest his schoolboys should be dis- [170 
heartened from their books by seeing some 
scholars, after their studying in the uni- 
versity, preferred to beggary. 

He spoils not a good school to make 
thereof a bad college, therein to teach his 
scholars logic. For, besides that logic 
may have an action of trespass against 
grammar for encroaching on her liberties, 
syllogisms are solecisms taught in the 
school, and oftentimes they are forced [180 
afterwards in the university to unlearn 
the fumbling skill they had before. 



134 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Out of his school he is no whit pedan- 
tical in carriage or discourse; contenting 
himseh" to be rich in Latin, though he 
doth not jingle with it in every company 
wherein he comes. 

To conclude, let this amongst other 
motives make schoolmasters careful in 
their place, that the eminencies of [190 
their scholars have commended the mem- 
ories of their schoolmasters to posterity, 
who otherwise in obscurity had altogether 
been forgotten. Who had ever heard of 
R. Bond, in Lancashire, but for the breed- 
ing of learned Ascham, his scholar, or of 
Hartgrave, in Burnley school, in the same 
county, but because he was the first did 
teach worthy Dr. Whitaker? Nor do I 
honor the memory of Mulcaster for [200 
anything so much as for his scholar, that 
gulf of learning. Bishop Andrews. This 
made the Athenians, the day before the 
great feast of Theseus, their founder, to 
sacrifice a ram to the memory of Conidas, 
his schoolmaster, that first instructed him. 



THE LIFE OF QUEEN ELIZx\BETH 
From The Holy State 

We intermeddle not with her descrip- 
tion, as she was a sovereign prince, too 
high for our pen, and performed by others 
already, though not by any done so fully 
but that still room is left for the en- 
deavors of posterity to add thereunto. 
We consider her only as she was a worthy 
lady, her private \drtues rendering her to 
the imitation, and her public to the ad- 
miration, of all. [10 

Her royal birth by her father's side 
doth comparatively make her mother- 
descent seem low, which otherwise, con- 
sidered in itself, was very noble and 
honorable. As for the bundle of scan- 
dalous aspersions by some cast on her 
birth, they are best to be buried without 
once opening of them. For as the rascal 
will presume to miscall the best lord, when 
far enough out of his hearing, so slan- [20 
derous tongues think they may run riot 
in railing on any, when once got out of 
the distance of time and reach of con- 



futation. But majesty, which dieth not, 
will not suffer itself to be so abused, seeing 
the best assurance which living princes 
have that their memories shall be honor- 
ably continued is founded (next to their 
own deserts) in the maintaining of the 
unstained reputation of their pred- [30 
ecessors. Yea, Divine Justice seems herein 
to be a compurgator of the parents 
of Queen Elizabeth, in that Nicholas 
Sanders, a Popish priest, the first raiser of 
these wicked reports, was accidentally 
famished as he roved up and down in 
Ireland; either because it was just he 
should be starved that formerly surfeited 
with lying, or because that island, out of a 
natural antipathy against poisonous [40 
creatures, would not lend life to so venom- 
ous a slanderer. 

Under the reign of her father, and 
brother King Edward VI (who commonly 
called her his ''sister Temperance"), she 
lived in a princely fashion. But the case 
was altered with her when her sister Mary 
came to the crown, who ever looked upon 
her with a jealous and frowning face, 
chiefly because of the difference be- [50 
tween them in religion. For though 
Queen Mary is said of herself not so much 
as to have barked, yet she had under her 
those who did more than bite; and rather 
her religion than disposition was guilty in 
countenancing their cruelty by her au- 
thority. 

This antipathy against her sister Eliza- 
beth was increased with the remembrance 
how Catherine dowager. Queen Mary's [60 
mother, was justled out of the bed of 
Henry VIII by Anna Boleyn, mother to 
Queen Elizabeth ; so that these two sisters 
were born, as I may say, not only in 
several, but opposite, horizons, so that the 
elevation and bright appearing of the one 
inferred the necessary obscurity and de- 
pression of the other; and still Queen 
Mary was troubled with this fit of the 
mother, which incensed her against [70 
this her half-sister. To which two grand 
causes of opposition this third may also 
be added, because not so generally known, 
though in itself of lesser consequence: 
Queen Mary had released Edward Cour- 
tenay, Earl of Devonshire, out of the 
Tower, where long he had been detained 



FULLER 



135 



prisoner, a gentleman of a beautiful 
body, sweet nature, and royal descent; 
intending him, as it was generally [80 
conceived, to be a husband for herself. 
For when the said earl petitioned the 
queen for leave to travel, she advised him 
rather to marry, insuring him that no 
lady in the land, how high soever, would 
refuse him for a husband; and urging him 
to make his choice where he pleased, she 
pointed herself out unto him as plainly 
as might stand with the modesty of a 
maid and majesty of a queen. Here- [90 
upon the young earl — whether because 
that his long durance had some influence 
on his brain, or that naturally his face was 
better than his head, or out of some 
private fancy and affection to the Lady 
Elizabeth, or out of loyal bashfulness, 
not presuming to climb higher, but ex- 
pecting to be called up — is said to have 
requested the queen for leave to marry 
her sister Elizabeth, unhappy that [100 
his choice either went so high or no higher. 
For who could have spoken worse treason 
against Mary, (though not against the 
queen), than to prefer her sister before 
her? And she, innocent lady, did after- 
wards dearly pay the score of this earl's 
indiscretion. 

For these reasons Lady Elizabeth was 
closely kept and narrowly sifted all her 
sister's reign, Sir Henry Bedingfield, [no 
her keeper, using more severity towards 
her than his place required, yea, more 
than a good man should — or a wise man 
would — have done. No doubt the least 
tripping of her foot should have cost her 
the losing of her head, if they could have 
caught her to be privy to any conspiracies. 

This lady as well deserved the title of 
"Elizabeth the Confessor" as ever Ed- 
ward, her ancient predecessor, did. [120 
Mr. Ascham was a good schoolmaster to 
her, but affliction was a better; so that it 
is hard to say whether she was more 
happy in having a crown so soon, or in 
having it no sooner, till affliction had first 
laid in her a low— and therefore sure — 
foundation of humility for highness to be 
afterwards built thereupon. 

We bring her now from the cross to the 
crown, and come we now to describe [130 
the rare endowments of her mind; when, 



behold, her virtues almost stifle my pen, 
they crowd in so fast upon it. 

She was an excellent scholar, under- 
standing the Greek, and perfectly speak- 
ing the Latin: witness her extempore 
speech in answer to the Polish ambassador, 
and another at Cambridge, Et si foemin- 
alis iste mens pudor (for so it began), 
elegantly making the word fceminalis; [140 
and well might she mint one new word 
who did refine so much new gold and 
silver. Good skill she had in the French 
and Italian, using interpreters not for 
need, but state. She was a good poet in 
English, and fluently made verses. In 
her time of persecution, when a Popish 
priest pressed her very hardly to declare 
her opinion concerning the presence of 
Christ in the sacrament, she truly and [150 
warily presented her judgment in these 
verses : 

" 'Twas God the Word that spake it. 
He took the bread and brake it; 
And what the Word did make it, 
That I believe, and take it." 

And though perchance some may say, 
"This was but the best of shifts and the 
worst of answers, because the distinct 
manner of the presence must be be- [160 
lieved," yet none can deny it to have been 
a wise return to an adversary who lay at 
wait for all advantages. Nor was her 
poetic vein less happy in Latin. When, 
a little before the Spanish invasion in 
eighty-eight, the Spanish ambassador, 
after a larger representation of his mas- 
ter's demands, had summed up the effect 
thereof in a tetrastich, she instantly in 
one verse rejoined her answer. We [170 
will presume to English both, though con- 
fessing the Latin loseth lustre by the 
translation. 

Te veto ne pergas bello defeiidcre Belgas; 
Qu(B Dracus erlpuit nunc restituantur opor- 

tet; 
Qtias pater evertit jubeo te condere cellas; 
Religio PapCB fac restituatur ad unguent. 

"These to you are our commands: 
Send no help to the Netherlands; 
Of the treasure took by Drake, [180 
Restitution you must make; 



136 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



And those abbeys build anew, 
Which your father overthrew; 
If for any peace you hope, 
In all points restore the Pope." 

THE queen's extempore RETURN 

Ad GrcBcas, bone rex, fient mandatci, 
Calendas. 

"Worthy King, know this your will 
At latter Lammas we'll fulfil." 

Her piety to God was exemplary: none 
more constant or devout in pri\'ate [igo 
prayers; very attentive also at sermons, 
wherein she was better affected with 
soundness of matter than quaintness of 
expression. She could not well digest 
the affected over-elegancy of such as 
prayed for her by the title of "Defendress 
of the Faith," and not the "Defender," 
it being no false construction to apply a 
masculine word to so heroic a spirit. She 
was very devout in returning thanks [200 
to God for her constant and continual 
preserv'ations : for one traitor's stab was 
scarce put by before another took aim at 
her. But as if the poisons of treason by 
custom were turned natural to her, by 
God's protection they did her no harm. 
In any design of consequence she loved to 
be long and well ad\dsed; but where 
her resolutions once seized, she would 
never let go her hold, according to her [210 
motto, Semper eadem. 

By her temperance she improved that 
stock of health which nature bestowed on 
her, using little wine and less physic. Her 
continence from pleasures was admirable, 
and she the paragon of spotless chastity, 
whatever some Popish priests (who count 
all virginity hid under a nun's veil) have 
feigned to the contrary. The best is, their 
words are no slander whose words [220 
are all slander, so given to railing that 
they must be dumb if they do not blas- 
pheme magistrates. One Jesuit made 
this false anagram on her name Elizabeth, 
Jesabel: false both in matter and manner. 
For allow it the abatement of H, (as all 
anagrams must sue in chancery for moder- 
ate favor), yet was it both unequal 
and ominous that T, a solid letter, should 
be omitted — the presage of the gallows [230 



whereon this anagrammatist was after- 
wards justly executed. Yea, let the testi- 
mony of Pope Sixtus V himself be believed, 
who professed that amongst all the princes 
in Christendom he found but two who w^ere 
worthy to bear command, had they not 
been stained with heresy: namely, Henry 
IV, King of France, and Elizabeth, Queen 
of England. AnA we may presume that 
the Pope, if commending his enemy, is [240 
therein infallible. 

We come to her death, the discourse 
whereof was more welcome to her from 
the mouth of her private confessor than 
from a public preacher; and she loved 
rather to tell herself than to be told of 
her mortality, because the open mention 
thereof made, as she conceived, her sub- 
jects divide their loyalty betwdxt the pres- 
ent and the future prince. We need [250 
look into no other cause of her sickness 
than old age, being seventy years old 
(David's age) , to which no king of England 
since the Conquest did attain. Her 
weakness was increased by her removal 
from London to Richmond in a cold 
winter day, sharp enough to pierce 
through those who were armed with 
health and youth. Also melancholy (the 
worst natural parasite — whosoever [260 
feeds him shall never be rid of his company) 
much afflicted her, being given over to 
sadness and silence. 

Then prepared she herself for another 
world, being more constant in prayer and 
pious exercises than ever before. Yet 
spake she very little to any, sighing out 
more than she said, and making still 
music to God in her heart. And as the 
red rose, though outwardly not so fra- [270 
grant, is inwardly far more cordial than the 
damask, being more thrifty of its sweet- 
ness and reserving it in itself, so the reli- 
gion of this dying queen was most turned 
inward, in soliloquies betwixt God and 
her own soul, though she wanted not 
outward expressions thereof. When her 
speech failed her, she spake with her 
heart, tears, eyes, hands, and other signs, 
so commending herself to God, the [280 
best Interpreter, who understands what his 
saints desire to say. Thus died Queen 
Elizabeth: whilst living, the first maid on 
earth, and when dead, the second in 



WALTON 



137 



heaven. Surely the kingdom had died 
with their queen had not the fainting 
spirits thereof been refreshed by the 
coming-in of gracious King James. 

She was of person, tall; of hair and 
complexion, fair, well-favored, but [290 
high-nosed; of limbs and feature, neat; of 
a stately and majestic deportment. She 
had a piercing eye, wherewith she used to 
touch what mettle strangers w^ere made 
of who came into her presence. But as 
she counted it a pleasant conquest with 
her majestic look to dash strangers out 
of countenance, so she was merciful in 
pursuing those w^hom she overcame; and 
afterwards would cherish and comfort [300 
them with her smiles, if perceiving to- 
wardliness and an ingenuous modesty in 
them. She much affected rich and costly 
apparel; and if ever jewels had just cause 
to be proud, it was with her wearing them. 



IZAAK WALTON (1593-1683) 

From THE COMPLETE ANGLER 

Chapter IV 

OBSERVATIONS OF THE NATURE AND BREED- 
ING OF THE TROUT, AND HOW TO FISH 
FOR HIM. 

PiscATOR. The trout is a fish highly 
valued, both in this and foreign nations. 
He may be justly said, as the old poet 
said of wine, and we English say of veni- 
son, to be a generous fish: a fish that is so 
like the buck that he also has his seasons; 
for it is observed that he comes in and 
goes out of season with the stag and buck. 
Gesner says his name is of a German off- 
spring, and says he is a fish that [10 
feeds clean and purely, in the swiftest 
streams, and on the hardest gravel; and 
that he may justly contend with all fresh- 
water tish, as the mullet may with all sea- 
fish, for precedency and daintiness of 
taste; and that being in right season, the 
most dainty palates have allowed prec- 
edency to him. 

And before I go farther in my dis- 
course, let me tell you, that you are to [20 
observe, that as there be some barren 



does that are good in summer, so there 
be some barren trouts that are good in 
winter; but there are not many that are 
so, for usually they be in their perfection 
in the month of May, and decline with 
the buck. Now you are to take notice 
that in several countries, as in Germany 
and in other parts, compared to ours, 
fish do differ much in their bigness [30 
and shape, and other ways, and so do 
trouts: it is well known that in the Lake 
Leman, the Lake of Geneva, there are 
trouts taken of three cubits long, as is 
afi&rmed by Gesner, a writer of good 
credit; and Mercator says the trouts that 
are taken in the Lake of Geneva are a 
great part of the merchandise of that 
famous city. And you are further to 
know that there be certain waters that [40 
breed trouts remarkable both for their 
number and smallness. I know a little 
brook in Kent that breeds them to a 
number incredible, and you may take 
them twenty or forty in an hour, but 
none greater than about the size of a 
gudgeon. There are also in divers rivers, 
especially that relate to or be near to 
the sea, as Winchester, or the Thames 
about Windsor, a little trout called a [50 
samlet or skegger trout, in both which 
places I have caught twenty or forty at 
a standing, that will bite as fast and as 
freely as minnows: these be by some 
taken to be young salmons; but in those 
waters they never grow to be bigger than 
a herring. 

There is also in Kent, near to Canter- 
bury, a trout called there a Fordidge trout, 
a trout that bears the name of the [60 
town where it is usually caught, that 
is accounted the rarest of fish: many of 
them near the bigness of salmon, but 
known by their different color; and in 
their best season they cut very white; 
and none of these have been known to 
be caught with an angle, unless it were 
one that was caught by Sir George Hast- 
ings, an excellent angler, and now with 
God: and he hath told me, he thought [70 
that trout bit not for hunger but wanton- 
ness; and it is rather to be believed, be- 
cause both he then, and many others 
before him, have been curious to search 
into their bellies, what the food was by 



138 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



which they h\'ed, and have found out 
nothing by which they might satisfy 
their curiosity. 

Concerning which you are to take 
notice that it is reported by good au- [So 
thors that grasshoppers and some fish 
have no mouths, but are nourished and 
take breath by the porousness of their 
gills, man knows not how: and this may 
be beHeved, if we consider that when the 
^a^-en hath hatched her eggs, she takes 
no further care, but leaves her young 
ones to the care of the God of nature, 
who is said, in the Psalms, "to feed the 
young ravens that call upon him." [90 
And tliey be kept alive and fed by a 
dew, or worms that breed in their nests. 
or some other ways that we mortals know 
not. And this may be believed of the 
Fordidge trout, which, as it is said of the 
stork that "he knows his season," so he 
knows his times, I think almost his day 
of coming into that river out of the sea, 
where he lives, and, it is like, feeds, nine 
months of the year, and fasts three [100 
in the river of Fordidge. And you are to 
note, that those townsmen are ver}' punc- 
tual in obser\-ing the time of beginning 
to fish for them, and boast much that 
their river affords a trout that exceeds 
all others. i\nd just so does Sussex boast 
of several fish: as namely, a Shelsey 
cockle, a Chichester lobster, an Arundel 
mullet, and an Amerly trout. 

And now for some confirmation of [no 
the Fordidge trout: you are to know that 
this trout is thought to eat nothing in 
the fresh water; and it may be the better 
believed, because it is well known that 
swallows, and bats, and wagtails, which 
are called half-year birds, and not seen 
to fly in England for six months in the 
year, but about JNIicliaelmas leave us for 
a hotter climate, yet some of them that 
have been left behind their fellows, [120 
have been found, many thousands at a 
time, in hollow trees, or clay caves, where 
they have been observed to live and sleep 
out the whole winter without meat. And 
so Albertus obsers-es, that there is one 
kind of frog that hath her mouth naturally 
shut up about the end of August, and 
that she lives so all the winter; and 
though it be strange to some, vet it is 



known to too many among us to be [130 
doubted. 

And so much for these Fordidge trouts, 
which never afford an angler sport, but 
either live their time of being in the fresh 
water, by their meat formerly got in the 
sea, not unlike the swallow or frog, or 
by the virtue of the fresh water only; or, 
as the birds of Paradise and the chameleon 
are said to live by the sun and the air. 

There is also in Northumberland a [140 
trout called a bull trout, of a much greater 
length and bigness than any in the south- 
ern parts. And there are, in many rivers 
that relate to the sea, salmon trouts, as 
much different from others, both in shape 
and in their spots, as we see sheep in some 
countries differ one from another in 
their shape and bigness, and in the fine- 
ness of their wool. And certainly, as 
some pastures breed larger sheep, so do [150 
some rivers, by reason of the ground over 
which they run, breed larger trouts. 

Now the next thing that I will commend 
to your consideration is that the trout 
is of a more sudden growth than other 
fish. Concerning which, you are also to 
take notice that he lives not so long as 
the perch and divers other fishes do, as 
Sir Francis Bacon hath observed in his 
History of Life and Death. [160 

And next you are to take notice that 
he is not like the crocodile, which if he 
lives never so long, yet always thrives 
till his death: but 'tis not so wdth the 
trout; for after he is come to his full 
growth, he declines in his body, and 
keeps his bigness or thrives only in his 
head till his death. And you are to 
know that he will about, especially before, 
the time of his spawning, get almost [170 
miraculously through weirs and flood- 
gates against the stream; even through 
such high and swift places as is almost 
incredible. Next, that the trout usually 
spawns about October or November, but 
in some rivers a little sooner or later; 
which is the more observ'able, because 
most other fish spawn in the spring or 
summer, when the sun hath warmed both 
the earth and the water, and made [180 
it fit for generation. And you are to note, 
that he continues many months out of 
season; for it may be obser\'ed of the 



WALTON 



139 



trout, that he is like the buck or the ox, 
that will not be fat in many months, 
though he go in the very same pastures 
that horses do, which will be fat in one 
month; and so you may observe that 
most other fishes recover strength, and 
grow sooner fat and in season, than [190 
the trout doth. 



Now you are to know that it is ob- 
served that usually the best trouts are 
either red or yellow; though some, as 
the Fordidge trout, be white and yet 
good; but that is not usual: and it is a 
note observable, that the female trout 
hath usually a less head and a deeper 
body than the male trout, and is usually 
the better meat. And note that a hog- [200 
back and a little head, to either trout, 
salmon, or any other fish, is a sign that 
that fish is in season. 

But yet you are to note that as you see 
some willows or palm-trees bud and 
blossom sooner than others do, so some 
trouts be, in rivers, sooner in season; and 
as some hollies or oaks are longer be- 
fore they cast their leaves, so are some 
trouts, in rivers, longer before they go [210 
out of season. 

And you are to note that there are 
several kinds of trouts; but these several 
kinds are not considered but by very few 
men; for they go under the general name 
of trouts, just as pigeons do in most 
places; though it is certain there are 
tame and wild pigeons; and of the 
tame, there be helmets, and runts, and 
carriers, and cropers, and indeed too [220 
many to name. Nay, the Royal Society 
have found and published lately that 
there be thirty and three kinds of spiders; 
and yet all, for aught I know, go under 
that one general name of spider. And 
it is so with many kinds of fish, and of 
trouts especially, which differ in their 
bigness, and shape, and spots, and color. 
The great Kentish hens may be an in- 
stance, compared to other hens. And, [230 
doubtless, there is a kind of small trout, 
which will never thrive to be big, that 
breeds very many more than others do, 
that be of a larger size; which you may 
rather believe if you consider that the 



little wren and titmouse will have twenty 
young ones at a time, when usually the 
noble hawk or the musical thrassel or 
blackbird exceed not four or five. 

And now you shall see me try my [240 
skill to catch a trout; and at my next 
walking, either this evening or to-morrow 
morning, I will give you direction how you 
yourself shall fish for him. 

Venator. Trust me, master, I see 
now it is a harder matter to catch a trout 
than a chub; for I have put on patience 
and followed you these two hours, and 
not seen a fish stir, neither at your minnow 
nor your worm. [250 

PisCATOR. Well, scholar, you must en- 
dure worse luck some time, or you will 
never make a good angler. But what 
say you now? There is a trout now, and 
a good one too, if I can but hold him; and 
two or three turns more will tire him. 
Now you see he lies still, and the sleight 
is to land him: reach me that landing-net. 
So, sir, now he is mine own. What say 
you now? is not this worth all my [260 
labor and your patience? 

Venator. On my word, master, this 
is a gallant trout: what shall we do with 
him? 

PiscATOR. Marry, e'en eat him to 
supper: we'll go to my hostess, from 
whence we came; she told me, as I was 
going out of door, that my brother Peter, a 
good angler and a cheerful companion, had 
sent word that he would lodge there [270 
to-night, and bring a friend with him. My 
hostess has two beds, and I know you and 
I may have the best; we'll rejoice with 
my brother Peter and his friend, tell 
tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, 
or find some harmless sport to con- 
tent us, and pass away a little time with- 
out offense to God or man. 

Venator. A match, good master; let's 
go to that house, for the linen looks [280 
white and smells of lavender, and I long to 
lie in a pair of sheets that smell so. Let's 
be going, good master, for I am hungry 
again with fishing. 

Piscator. Nay, stay a little, good 
scholar. I caught my last trout with a 
worm; now I will put on a minnow, and 
try a quarter of an hour about yonder 
trees for another; and so walk towards 



140 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



our lodging. Look you, scholar, there- [200 
about we shall have a bite presently or 
not at all. Have with you, sir! o" my 
word I have hold of him. Oh! it is a 
great logger-headed chub; come, hang 
him upon that willow twig, and let's be 
going. But turn out of the way a 
Uttle, good scholar, towards yonder high 
honeysuckle hedge; there we'll sit and 
sing, whilst this shower falls so gently 
upon the teeming earth, and gives yet [300 
a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that 
adorn these verdant meadows. 

Look! under that broad beech-tree I 
sat down, when I was last this way a- 
fisliing. And the birds in the adjoin- 
ing grove seemed to have a friendly con- 
tention with an echo, whose dead voice 
seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to 
the brow of that primrose hill. There 
I sat viewing the silver streams glide [310 
silently towards their center, the tem- 
pestuous sea; yet sometimes opposed by 
rugged roots and pebble-stones, which 
broke their waves, and turned them 
into foam. And sometimes I beguiled 
time by viewing the harmless lambs; 
some leaping securely in the cool shade, 
whilst others sported themselves in the 
cheerful sun ; and saw others craving com- 
fort from the swollen udders of their [320 
bleating dams. As I thus sat, these and 
other sights had so fully possessed my 
soul with content, that I thought, as the 
poet hath happily expressed it, 

" I was for that time lifted above earth. 
And possessed joys not promised in my 
birth." 

As I left this place, and entered into 
the next field, a second pleasure enter- 
tained me; 'twas a handsome milkmaid, 
that had not yet attained so much age [330 
and wisdom as to load her mind with any 
fears of many things that will never be, 
as too many men too often do; but she 
cast away all care, and sung like a 
nightingale. Her voice was good, and the 
ditty fitted for it: it was that smooth song 
which was made by Kit Marlow, now at 
least fifty years ago; and the milkmaid's 
mother sung an answer to it, which was 
made bv Sir Walter Raleigh, in his [340 



younger days. They were old-fashioned 
poetry, but choicely good; I think much 
better than the strong lines that are now 
in fashion in this critical age. Look 
yonder! on my word, yonder they both 
be a-milking again. -I will give her the 
chub, and persuade them to sing those 
two songs to us. 

God speed you, good woman! I have 
been a-fishing, and am going to Bleak [350 
Hall to my bed; and having caught more 
fish than will sup myself and my friend, I 
will bestow this upon you and your 
daughter, for I use to sell none. 

Milk- Woman. Marry, God requite you, 
sir, and we'll eat it cheerfully; and if you 
come this way a-fishing two months 
hence, a grace of God! I'll give you a 
syllabub of new verjuice in a new-made 
hay-cock for it. And my Alaudlin shall [360 
sing you one of her best ballads; for she 
and I both love all anglers, they be such 
honest, civil, quiet men. In the mean- 
time will you drink a draft of red cow's 
milk? You shall have it freely. 

PiscATOR. No, I thank you; but, I 
pray, do us a courtesy that shall stand 
you and your daughter in nothing, and 
yet we will think ourselves still something 
in your debt; it is but to sing us a song [370 
that was sung by your daughter when I 
last passed over this meadow, about eight 
or nine days since. 

Milk- Woman. What song • was it, I 
pray? Was it "Come, shepherds, deck 
your heads"? or, "As at noon Dulcina 
rested"? or, "Phillida flouts me"? or, 
"Chevy Chase"? or, "Johnny Arm- 
strong" ? or, "Troy To^^^l"? 

PiscATOR. No, it is none of those; it [380 
is a song that your daughter sung the first 
part, and you sung the answer to it. 

MiLK-WoMAN. Oh, I know it now. 
I learned it the first part in my golden 
age, when I was about the age of my 
poor daughter; and the latter part, which 
indeed fits me best now, but two or three 
years ago, when the cares of the world 
began to take hold of me: but you shall, 
God willing, hear them both, and sung [390 
as well as we can, for we both love anglefs. 
Come, Maudlin, sing the first part to 
the gentlemen, with a merry heart; and 
I'll sing the second when you have done. 



WALTON 



141 



THE milkmaid's SONG 

Come, live with me, and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That valleys, groves, or hills, or field. 
Or woods, and steepy mountains yield; 

\\'here we will sit upon the rocks. 
And see the shepherds feed our flocks, [400 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses. 
And then a thousand fragrant posies; 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; 

A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
Slippers lined choicely for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold; [410 

A belt of straw and ivy-buds; 
With coral clasps and amber studs: 
And if these pleasures may thee move. 
Come, live with me, and be my love. 

Thy silver dishes for my meat, 
As precious as the gods do eat. 
Shall, on an ivory table, be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, 
For thy delight, each May morning. [420 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me, and be my love. 

Venator. Trust me, master, it is a 
choice song, and sweetly sung by honest 
Maudlin. I now see it was not without 
cause that our good Queen Elizabeth did 
so often wish herself a milkmaid all the 
month of May, because they are not 
troubled mth fears and cares, but sing 
sweetly all the day, and sleep securely [430 
all the night; and without doubt, hon- 
est, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. 
I'll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury's milk- 
maid's wish upon her, "That she may die 
in the spring, and being dead, may have 
good store of flowers stuck round about 
her winding-sheet." 



THE MILKMAID S MOTHER S ANSWER 

If all the world and love were young. 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move [440 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

But time drives flocks from field to fold. 
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; 
Then Philomel becometh dumb, 
And age complains of care to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields. 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall. 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, [451 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten; 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, 
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs. 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 

What should we talk of dainties, then, 
Of better meat than's fit for men? 
These are but vain : that's only good [460 
Which God hath blest, and sent for food. 



But could youth last, and love still breed; 
Had joys no date, nor age no need; 
Then those delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 



PiscATOR. Well sung, good woman; I 
thank you. I'll give you another dish 
of fish one of these days, and then beg 
another song of you. Come, scholar! let 
Maudlin alone; do not you offer to [470 
spoil her voice. Look! yonder comes mine 
hostess, to call us to supper. How now? 
Is my brother Peter come? 

Hostess. Yes, and a friend ^^'ith him; 
they are both glad to hear that you are 
in these parts, and long to see you; and 
long to be at supper, for they be very 
hungry. 



142 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



From Chapter VIII 

If this direction to catch a pike do you 
no good, yet I am certain this direction 
how to roast him when he is caught is 
choicely good, for I have tried it; and it 
is somewhat the better for not being com- 
mon. But with my direction you must 
take this caution, that your pike must 
not be a small one; that is, it must be 
more than half a yard, and should be 
bigger. _ [lo 

First open your pike at the gills, and 
if need be cut also a Uttle slit towards the 
belly. Out of these take his guts, and keep 
his liver, which you are to shred very 
small with thyme, sweet marjoram, and 
winter-savory. To these put some pickled 
oysters, and some anchovies, two or three, 
(both these last whole, for the anchovies 
will melt, and the oysters should not). 
To these you must add also a pound [20 
of sweet butter, which you are to mix with 
the herbs that are shred; and let them all be 
well salted (if the pike be more than a yard 
long, then you may put into these herbs 
more than a pound; or if he be less, then 
less butter will suffice) . These being thus 
mixed, with a blade or two of mace, must 
be put into the pike's belly, and then his 
belly sewed up. Then you are to thrust 
the spit through his mouth out at his [30 
tail; and then take four, or five, or six 
split sticks or very thin laths, and a con- 
venient quantity of tape or filetting. 
These laths are to be tied round about the 
pike's body, from his head to nis tail, and 
the tape tied somewhat thick to prevent 
his breaking or falling off from the spit. 
Let him be roasted very leisurely, and 
often basted with claret wine and an- 
chovies and butter mixed together, and [40 
also with wliat moisture falls from him 
into the pan. When you have roasted 
him sufficiently you are to hold under 
him, when you unwind or cut the tape 
that ties him, such a dish as you purpose 
to eat him out of; and let him fall into it 
with the sauce that is roasted in his belly; 
and by this means the pike ^vill be kept 
unbroken and complete. Then to the 
sauce which was within him, and also [50 
that sauce in the pan, you are to add a 
fit quantity of the best butter, and to 



squeeze the juice of three or four oranges. 
Lastly, you may either put into the pike 
with the oysters two cloves of garlic, and 
take it whole out when the pike is cut 
off the spit; or, to give the sauce a hatd 
gout, let the dish into which you let the 
pike fall be rubbed with it; the using or not 
using of this garlic is left to your dis- [60 
cretion. 



JEREMY TAYLOR (1613-1667) 

From HOLY DYING 

It is a mighty change that is made by 
the death of every person, and it is visible 
to us who are alive. Reckon but from 
the sprightfulness of youth and the fair 
cheeks and full eyes of childhood, from 
the vigorousness and strong flexure of 
the joints of five-and-twenty, to the 
hoUowness and dead paleness, to the 
loathsomeness and horror of a three days' 
burial, and we shall perceive the [10 
distance to. be very great and very strange. 
But so have I seen a rose newly spring- 
ing from the clefts of its hood, and at 
first it was fair as the morning, and full 
with the dew of heaven as a lamb's fleece; 
but when a ruder breath had forced open 
its virgin modesty and dismantled its too 
youthful and unripe retirements, it began 
to put on darkness and to decline to soft- 
ness and the symptoms of a sickly [20 
age: it bowed the head and broke its 
stalk, and at night, having lost some of 
its leaves and all its beauty, it fell into 
the portion of weeds and outworn faces. 
The same is the portion of every man 
and every woman: the heritage of worms 
and serpents, rottenness and cold dis- 
honor, and our beauty so changed that 
our acquaintance quickly know us not; 
and that change mingled with so much [30 
horror, or else meets so with our fears and 
weak discoursings, that they who six 
hours ago tended upon us, either with 
charitable or ambitious services, cannot 
without regret stay in the room alone 
where the body lies stripped of its life 
and honor. I have read of a fair young 
German gentleman, who, living, often 
refused to be pictured, but put off the 



TA YLOR 



143 



importunity of his friends' desire by [40 
giving way that, after a few days' burial, 
they might send a painter to his vault, 
and, if they saw cause for it, draw the 
image of his death unto the life. They 
did so, and found his face half eaten, and 
his midriff and backbone full of serpents; 
and so he stands pictured among his 
armed ancestors. So does the fairest 
beauty change, and it will be as bad for 
you and me; and then what servants [50 
shall we have to w^ait upon us in the grave? 
what friends to visit us? what ofl&cious 
people to cleanse away the moist and 
unwholesome cloud reflected upon our 
faces from the sides of the weeping vaults, 
which are the longest weepers for our 
funeral? 

This discourse will be useful if we con- 
sider and practise by the following rules 
and considerations respectively. [60 

I. All the rich and all the covetous 
men in the world will perceive, and all the 
world will perceive for them, that it is 
but an ill recompense for all their cares 
that by this time all that shall be left 
will be this, that the neighbors shall say, 
"He died a rich man;" and yet his wealth 
will not profit him in the grave, but 
hugely swell the sad accounts of dooms- 
day. And he that kills the Lord's [70 
people with unjust or ambitious wars, for 
an unrewarding interest shall have this 
character, that he threw away all the 
days of his life that one year might be 
reckoned with his name, and computed 
by his reign or consulship; and many men 
by great labors and affronts, many in- 
dignities and crimes, labor only for a 
pompous epitaph and a loud title upon 
their marble; whilst those into whose [80 
possessions their heirs or kindred are 
entered are forgotten, and lie unregarded 
as their ashes, and without concernment 
or relation, as the turf upon the face of 
their grave. A man may read a sermon, 
the best and most passionate that ever 
man preached, if he shall but enter into 
the sepulchres of kings. In the same 
Escurial where the Spanish princes live 
in greatness and power, and decree [90 
war or peace, they have wisely placed a 
cemeter}'', where their ashes and their 
glory shall sleep till time shall be no 



more; and where our kings have been 
crowned their ancestors lie interred, and 
they must walk over their grandsire's 
head to take his crown. There is an 
acre sown with royal seed, the copy of the 
greatest change, from rich to naked, from 
ceiled roofs to arched coffins, from [100 
living like gods to die like men. There is 
enough to cool the flames of lust, to abate 
the heights of pride, to appease the itch 
of covetous desires, to sully and dash out 
the dissembling colors of a lustful, arti- 
ficial, and imaginary beauty. There the 
warlike and the peaceful, the fortunate 
and the miserable, the beloved and the 
despised princes mingle their dust, and 
pay down their symbol of mortality, [no 
and tell all the world that when we die 
our ashes shall be equal to kings', and 
our accounts easier, and our pains or our 
crowns shall be less. To my apprehen- 
sion, it is a sad record which is left by 
Athenaeus concerning Ninus, the great 
Assyrian monarch, whose life and death 
are summed up in these words: "Ninus 
the Assyrian had an ocean of gold and 
other riches more than the sand in [120 
the Caspian Sea; he never saw the stars, 
and perhaps he never desired it; he never 
stirred up the holy fire among the Magi, 
nor touched his god with the sacred rod 
according to the laws; he never offered 
sacrifice, nor worshipped the deity, nor 
administered justice, nor spake to his 
people, nor numbered them; but he was 
most valiant to eat and drink, and having 
mingled his wines, he threw the rest [130 
upon the stones. This man is dead; be- 
hold his sepulchre; and now hear where 
Ninus is. Sometimes I was Ninus, and 
drew the breath of a living man, but now 
am nothing but clay. I have nothing 
but what I did eat, and what I served to 
myself in lust; that was and is all my por- 
tion. The wealth with which I was es- 
teemed blessed, my enemies, meeting 
together, shall bear away, as the mad [140 
Thyades carry a raw goat. I am gone 
to hell; and when I went thither I neither 
carried gold, nor horse, nor silver chariot. 
I that wore a mitre am now a little heap 
of dust." I know not anything that can 
better represent the ey\\ condition of a 
wicked man or a changing greatness. 



144 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



From the greatest secular dignity to dust 
and ashes his nature bears him; and 
from thence to hell his sins carry him, [150 
and there he shall be for ever under the 
dominion of chains and devils, wrath and 
an intolerable calamity. This is the re- 
ward of an iinsanctihed condition, and a 
greatness ill-gotten or ill-administered. 

2. Let no man extend his thoughts, or 
let his hopes wander towards future and 
far-distant events and accidental con- 
tingencies. This day is mine and yours, 
but ye know not what shall be on [160 
the morrow; and every morning creeps 
out of a dark cloud, leaving behind it an 
ignorance and silence deep as midnight 
and undiscerned as are the phantasms 
that make a chrisom-child to smile; so 
that we cannot discern what comes here- 
after, unless we had a light from heaven 
brighter than the vision of an angel, even 
the spirit of prophecy. Without rev- 
elation we cannot tell whether we [170 
shall eat tomorrow, or whether a squin- 
ancy shall choke us; and it is written in 
the unrevealed folds of divine predestina- 
tion that many who are this day alive 
shall tomorrow be laid upon the cold 
earth, and the women shall weep over 
their shroud, and dress them for their 
funeral. St. James, in his Epistle, notes 
the folly of some men his contemporaries, 
who were so impatient of the event [180 
of tomorrow, or the accidents of next 
year, or the good or evils of old age, that 
they would consult astrologers and witches, 
oracles and de\ils, what should befall 
them the next calends — what should be 
the event of such a voyage — what God 
had written in his book concerning the 
success of battles, the election of em- 
perors, the heirs of families, the price of 
merchandise, the return of the Tyrian [190 
fleet, the rate of Sidonian carpets; and 
as they were taught by the crafty and 
lying demons, so they would expect 
the issue; and oftentimes by disposing 
their affairs in order towards such events, 
really did produce some little accidents 
according to their expectation, and that 
made them trust the oracles in greater 
things, and in all. Against this he opposes 
his counsel that we should not search [200 
after forbidden records, much less by 



uncertain significations; for whatsoever 
is disposed to happen by the order of 
natural causes or civil counsels may be 
rescinded by a peculiar decree of Provi- 
dence, or be prevented by the death of 
the interested persons; who, while their 
hopes are full, and their causes con- 
joined, and the work brought forward, 
and the sickle put into the harvest, [210 
and the first-fruits offered and ready to be 
eaten, even then, if they put forth their 
hand to an event that stands but at the 
door, at that door their body may be car- 
ried forth to burial before the expedition 
shall enter into fruition. When Richilda, 
the widow of Albert, earl of Ebersberg, 
had feasted the emperor Henry III, 
and petitioned in behalf of her nephew 
Welpho for some lands formerly pos- [220 
sessed by the earl her husband, just as 
the emperor held out his hand to signify 
his consent, the chamber floor suddenly 
fell under them, and Richilda, falling 
upon the edge of a bathing- vessel, was 
bruised to death, and stayed not to see 
her nephew sleep in those lands which 
the emperor was reaching forth to her, 
and placed at the door of restitution. 

3. As our hopes must be confined, so [230 
must our designs: let us not project long 
designs, crafty plots, and diggings so 
deep that the intrigues of a design shall 
never be unfolded till our grandchildren 
have forgotten our virtues or our vices. 
The work of our sovil is cut short, facile, 
sweet, and plain, and fitted to the small 
portions of our shorter life; and as we 
must not trouble our inquiry, so neither 
must we intricate our labor and pur- [240 
poses with what we shall never enjoy. This 
rule does not forbid us to plant orchards, 
which shall feed our nephews with their 
fruit, for by such provisions they do some- 
thing towards an imaginar}^ immortality, 
and do charity to their relatives; but such 
projects are reproved which discompose 
our present duty by long and future 
designs: such which, by casting our labors 
to events at distance, make us less to [250 
remember our death standing at the 
door. It is fit for a man to work for his 
day's wages, or to contrive for the hire 
of a week, or to lay a train to make pro- 
visions for such a time as is within our 



TAYLOR 



145 



eye, and in our duty, and within the usual 
periods of man's Hfe, for whatsoever 
is made necessary is also made pru- 
dent; but while we plot and busy our- 
selves in the toils of an ambitious war, [260 
or the levies of a great estate, night enters 
in upon us, and tells all the world how 
like fools we lived and how deceived and 
miserably we died. Seneca tells of Senecio 
Cornelius, a man crafty in getting, and 
tenacious in holding, a great estate, and 
one v^ho was as diligent in the care of his 
body as of his money, curious of his 
health as of his possessions, that he all 
day long attended upon his sick and [270 
dying friend; but when he went away 
was quickly comforted, supped merrily, 
went to bed cheerfully, and on a sudden 
being surprised by a squinancy, scarce 
drew his breath until the morning, but 
by that time died, being snatched from 
the torrent of his fortune, and the swell- 
ing tide of wealth, and a likely hope 
bigger than the necessities of ten men. 
This accident was much noted then in [280 
Rome, because it happened in so great a 
fortune, and in the midst of wealthy de- 
signs; and presently it made wise men to 
consider how imprudent a person he is who 
disposes of ten years to come when he is 
not lord of tomorrow. 



5. Since we stay not here, being people 
but of a day's abode, and our age is 
like that of a fly, and contemporary with 
a gourd, we must look somewhere else [290 
for an abiding city, a place in another 
country to fix our house in, whose walls 
and foundation is God, where we must 
find rest, or else be restless forever. For 
whatsoever ease we can have or fancy 
here is .?hortly to be changed into sadness 
or tedioasness; it goes away too soon 
like the periods of our life, or stays too 
long like the sorrows of a sinner; its own 
weariness, or a contrary disturbance, [300 
is its load; or it is eased by its revolution 
into vanity and forgetfulness; and where 
either there is sorrow or an end of joy, 
there can be no true felicity; which, be- 
cause it must be had by some instrument, 
and in some period of our duration, we 
must carry up our atlections to the 



mansion prepared for us above, where 
eternity is the measure, felicity is the state, 
angels are the company, the Lamb is [310 
the light, and God is the portion and in- 
heritance. 



JOHN MILTON (1608-1674) 
L'ALLEGRO 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 

'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and 
sights unholy! 
Find out some uncouth cell, 5 

Where brooding darkness spreads his 
jealous wings. 
And the night-raven sings; 

There under ebon shades and low- 
browed rocks. 
As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 
But come, thou Goddess fair and free. 
In heaven yclept^ Euphrosyne, 
And by men heart-easing Mirth; 
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 
With two sister Graces more, 15 

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; 
Or whether (as some sager- sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 
As he met her once a-Maying, 20 

There on beds of violets blue 
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 
So buxom,'^ blithe, and debonair. 
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 25 
Jest, and youthful JoUity, 
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles. 
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles. 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live in dimple sleek; 30 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it as you go. 
On the light fantastic toe; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honor due, 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 



' called. 



2 more wisely. 



sprightly. 



146 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



To live with her, and livx with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures free: 40 

To hear the lark begin his flight, , 
And singing, startle the dull night, 
From his watch-tower in the skies. 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow, 45 

And at my window bid good-morrow, 
Through the sweet-briar or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine; 
While the cock, with lively din, 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 50 

And to the stack, or the barn-door. 
Stoutly struts his dames before: 
Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn. 
From the side of some hoar hill, 55 

Through the high wood echoing shrill: 
Sometime walking, not unseen. 
By hedge-row elms, on liillocks green. 
Right against the eastern gate 
Where the great sun begins his state, 60 
Robed in flames and amber light, 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 

And the mower w^hets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleas- 
ures 
Whilst the landskip^ round it measures: 70 
Russet lawns and fallows grey, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 75 

Shallow brooks and rivers wide; 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
The cynosure- of neighboring eyes. 80 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs and other country messes, 85 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves. 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead, 
To the tanned haycock in the mead. go 



' landscape. 



- center of observation. 



Sometimes, with secure delight, 

The upland hamlets will invite. 

When the merry bells ring round. 

And the jocund rebecks^ sound 

To many a youth and many a maid 95 

Dancing in the chequered shade; 

And young and old come forth to play 

On a sunshine holiday, 

Till the Hvelong daylight fail: 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 

With stories told of many a feat. 

How faery Mab the junkets eat. 

She was pinched and pulled, she said;- 

And he, by friar's lantern'* led. 

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 

His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 

That ten day-laborers could not end; 

Then lies him dowm, the lubber'' fiend, no 

And, stretched out all the chimney's 

length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 
And crop-full out of doors he flings, 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 
Towered cities please us then, 
And the busy hum of men, 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 120 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 125 

In saffron robe, wdth taper clear, 
And pomp and feast and revelry. 
With mask and antique pageantry; 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child. 
Warble his native %vood-notes wild. 
And ever, against eating cares, 135 

Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes with many a winding bout® 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 140 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
The melting voice through mazes running, 

3 fiddles, * will o' the wisp. ' awkward. ^ turn. 



MILTON 



147 



Untwisting all the chains that tie 

The hidden soul of harmony; 

That Orpheus' self may heave his head 145 

From golden slumber on a bed 

Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 

Such strains as would have won the ear 

Of Pluto to have quite set free 

His half-regained Eurydice. 150 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO 

Hence, vain deluding Joys, 

The brood of Folly without father bred ! 
How little you bested,^ 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 5 

And fancies fond^ with gaudy shapes 
possess, 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun- 
beams. 
Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' 
train. 10 

But hail, thou Goddess sage and holy, 
Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight. 
And therefore to our weaker view 15 

O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, 
Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 20 

The sea nymphs', and their powers of- 
fended. 
Yet thou art higher far descended: 
Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 
To solitary Saturn bore; 
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 25 
Such mixture was not held a stain). 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure. 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain. 
Flowing with majestic train, 



profit. 



' foolish. 



And sable stole of cypress lawn 35 

Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state. 
With even step, and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the skies. 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 40 
There, held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast. 
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 46 
And hears the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; 50 
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
Him that yon soars on golden wing. 
Guiding the fiery-wheelM throne, 
The cherub Contemplation; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 55 

'Less PhilomeP will deign a song, 
In her sweetest, saddest plight. 
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 60 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of 

folly, 
Most musical, most melancholy! 
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, 
I woo, to hear thy even-song; 
And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 

On the dry smooth-shaven green. 
To behold the wandering moon 
Riding near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 
And oft, as if her head she bowed, 71 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew sound 
Over some wide-watered shore, 75 

Swinging slow with sullen roar; 
Or if the air will not permit. 
Some still removed place will fit. 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80 
Far from all resort of mirth. 
Save the cricket on the hearth. 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 85 

Be seen in some high lonely tower 

' the nightingale. 



148 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Where I may oft outwatch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 
The immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook; 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or underground, 
Whose power hath a true consent, 95 

With planet or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptered pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 

Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 
But, O sad Virgin! that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower; 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 

Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
x\nd made Hell grant what love did seek; 
Or call up him that left half-told 
The story of Cambuscan bold, no 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife 
That owned the \drtuous^ ring and glass, 
And of the wondrous horse of brass, 
On which the Tartar king did ride; 115 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung. 
Of tourneys, and of trophies hung, 
Of forests, and enchantments drear. 
Where more is meant than meets the 
ear. 120 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not tricked"- and frounced as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 125 

While rocking winds are piping loud; 
Or ushered with a shower still, 
When the gust hath blown his fill, 
Ending on the rustling leaves. 
With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves. 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 
Of pine, or monumental oak, 135 

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke 
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 

1 magical. - adorned. 



There in close covert by some brook. 

Where no profaner eye may look, 140 

Hide me from day's garish eye. 

While the bee, wdth honeyed thigh, 

That at her flowery work doth sing. 

And the waters murmuring. 

With such consort as they keep, 145 

Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture displayed. 

Softly on my eyelids laid; 150 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or imderneath, 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 155 

To walk the studious cloister's pale,^ 

And love the high embowed roof. 

With antique pillars massy proof, 

And storied windows richly dight,^ 

Casting a dim religious light. 160 

There let the pealing organ blow 

To the full- voiced quire below 

In service high and anthems clear 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 

Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165 

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 

Find out the peaceful hermitage, 

The hairy gown and mossy cell. 

Where I may sit and rightly spell' 170 

Of every star that heaven doth shew. 

And every herb that sips the dew, 

Till old experience do attain 

To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures. Melancholy, give, 175 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

LYCIDAS 

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned 
Friend, unfortunately drowned in his pas- 
sage from Chester on the Irish Seas, i6j~; 
and by occasion foretells the ruin of our 
corrupted Clergy, then in their height. 

Yet once more, ye laurels, and once 

more. 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and 

crude, 
And with forced fingers rude 



' enclosure. 



^ ornamented. 



5 reason, study. 



MILTON 



149 



Shatter your leaves before the mellowing 

year. 5 

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 
Compels me to disturb your season due; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his 

peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he 

knew 10 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter^ to the parching wind, 
Without the meed^ of some melodious tear. 
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 15 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth 

spring; 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the 

string. 
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse; 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn, 
And as he passes turn, 21 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 
For we were nursed upon the self-same 

hill, 
Fed the same fiock, by fountain, shade, 

and rill; 
Together both, ere the high lawns ap- 
peared 25 
Under the opening eyelids of the morn. 
We drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry 

horn, 
Battening^ our flocks with the fresh dews 

of night, 
Oft till the star that rose at evening, 

bright, 30 

Toward heaven's descent had sloped his 

westering wheel. 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute. 
Tempered to the oaten flute; 
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with 

cloven heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent 

long; 35 

And old Damoetas loved to hear our 

song. 
But oh! the heax-y change, now thou 

art gone. 
Now thou art gone, and never must re- 
turn! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert 

caves. 



- tribute. 



' fattening. 



With wild thyme and the gadding vine 
o'ergrown, 40 

And all their echoes, mourn. 

The willows and the hazel copses green 

Shall now no more be seen, 

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft 
lays. 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 

Or taint- worm to the weanling^ herds that 
graze. 

Or frost to flowers, that their gay ward- 
robe wear, 

When first the white-thorn blows; 

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
Where were ye. Nymphs, when the re- 
morseless deep 50 

Closed o'er the head of your loved Lyci- 
das? 

For neither were ye playing on the steep 

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, 
lie. 

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard 
stream. 55 

Ay me, I fondly^ dream! 

Had ye been there — for what could that 
have done? 

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus 
bore. 

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 

Whom universal nature did lament, 60 

When by the rout that made the hideous 
roar 

His gory visage down the stream was sent, 

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian 
shore? 
Alas ! what boots it vntYi uncessant care 

To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's 
trade, 65 

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 

Were it not better done, as others use, 

To sport ^^'ith Amaryllis in the shade. 

Or with the tangles of Neasra's hair? 

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 
raise 70 

(That last infirmity of noble mind) 

To scorn delights and live laborious days; 

But the fair guerdon^ when we hope to 
find. 

And think to burst out into sudden 
blaze, 

Comes the blind Fur}' with the abhorred 
shears, 75 



< young, weaned. 



' foolishly. 



' reward. 



I50 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



And slits the thin-spun life. "But not 

the praise," 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trem- 
bling ears: 
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal 

soil. 
Nor in the gUstering foil 
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor 

lies; So 

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure 

eyes 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy 

meed." 
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored 

flood, 8s 

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with 

vocal reeds. 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood: 
But now my oat proceeds. 
And listens to the herald of the sea, 
That came in Neptune's plea. 90 

He asked the waves, and asked the felon^ 

winds. 
What hard mishap hath doomed this 

gentle swain? 
And questioned every gust of rugged 

wings 
That blows from off each beaked promon- 
tory: 
They know not of his story; 95 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
That not a blast was from his dungeon 

strayed; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses 

dark. 
That sunk so low that sacred head of 

thine. 
Next Camus, reverend sire, went foot- 
ing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the 

edge I OS 

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with 

woe. 
"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my 

dearest pledge? "^ 
Last came, and last did go. 
The pilot of the Galilean lake; 

' criminal. ^ child. 



Two massy keys he bore of metals twain no 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern be- 
spake : 
"How well could I have spared for thee, 

young swain. 
Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the 

fold! IIS 

Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' 

feast 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest; 
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves 

know how to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else 

the least 120 

That to the faithful herdman's art be- 
longs ! 
What recks it them? What need they? 

They are sped;^ 
And when they list, their lean and flashy 

songs 
Grate on their scrannel* pipes of wretched 

straw; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not 

fed, _ 125 

But swoln with wind and the rank mist 

they draw. 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; 
Besides what the grim wolf with privy 

paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said. 
But that two-handed engine at the door 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no 

more." 131 

Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is 

past 
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian 

Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither 

cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand 

hues. _ 13s 

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers 

use^ 
Of shades and wanton winds and gushing 

brooks, 
On whose fresh lap the swart star^ sparely 

looks. 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled 

eyes. 



3 accomplish their end. 
' dwell. 



* harsh, discordant. 
6 the Dog-star, Sirius. 



MILTON 



151 



That on the green turf suck the honeyed 
showers, 140 

And purple all the ground with vernal 
flowers. 

Bring the rathe^ primrose that forsaken 
dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 

The white pink, and the pansy freaked 
with jet. 

The glowing violet, 145 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired wood- 
bine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive 
head, 

And every flower that sad embroidery 
wears ; 

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. 

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears. 

To strew the laureate hearse where 
Lycid lies. 151 

For so, to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false sur- 
mise: 

Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sound- 
ing seas 

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are 
hurled; • 155 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 

Where thou perhaps under the whelming 
tide 

Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous 
world ; 

Or whether thou, to our moist^ vows 
denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 

Where the great vision of the guarded 
mount 

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's 
hold. 

Look homeward. Angel, now, and melt 
with ruth;'"* 

And ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep 

no more, 165 

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 

Sunk though he be beneath the watery 
floor; 

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 

And yet anon repairs his drooping head, 

And tricks'* his beams, and with new- 
spangled ore 1 70 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: 

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 

' early. - tearful. ' pity. « adorns. 



Through the dear might of Him that 

walked the waves. 
Where, other groves and other streams 

along, 174 

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 
And hears the unexpressive'' nuptial song. 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and 

love. 
There entertain him all the saints above. 
In solemn troops and sweet societies, 179 
That sing, and singing in their glory move. 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no 

more; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius® of the 

shore. 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
Thus sang the uncouth^ swain to the 

oaks and rills, 186 

While the still morn went out with sandals 

grey; 
He touched the tender stops of various 

quills,^ 
With eager thought warbling his Doric 

lay: 
And now the sun had stretched out all the 

hills, 190 

And now was dropped into the western bay. 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle 

blue: 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures 

new. 

SONNETS 

ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE 
AGE OF TWENTY-THREE 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 
youth. 

Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth 
year! 

My hasting days fly on with full career. 

But my late spring no bud or blossom 
shew'th. 

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 
truth 5 

That I to manhood am arrived so near; 

And inward ripeness doth much less ap- 
pear. 

That some more timely-happy spirits 
endu'th. 

' ine.xpressible. • guardian angel, 'unknown, 'reeds. 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 

It shall be still in strictest measure 



even 



To that same lot, however mean or high. 
Toward which Time leads me, and the will 

of Heaven; 
All is, if I have grace to use it so. 
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 



ON SHAKESPEARE 

What needs my Shakespeare for his 

honored bones 
The labor of an age in piled stones? 
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid 
Under a star-ypointing pyramid? 
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 
What need'st thou such weak witness of 

thy name? 
Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavor- 
ing art, 
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each 

heart 10 

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued^ 

book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression 

took, 
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. 
Dost make us marble with too much 

conceiving. 
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie 1 5 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to 

die. 



TO THE LORD GENERAL CROM- 
WELL 

MAY, 1652 

ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS 
AT THE COMMITTEE FOR PROPAGATION 
OF THE GOSPEL 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a 

cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 
To peace and truth thy glorious way 

hast ploughed, 

' invaluable. 



And on the neck of crowned Fortune 

proud 5 

Hast reared God's trophies, and his work 

pursued. 
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots 

imbrued. 
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises 

loud. 
And Worcester's laureate wreath: yet 

much remains 
To conquer still; Peace hath her vic- 
tories 10 
No less renowned than War: new foes 

arise, 
Threatening to bind our souls with 

secular chains. 
Help us to save free conscience from the 

paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their 

maw. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and 

wide. 
And that one talent which is death to 

hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul 

more bent 4 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide; 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light de- 
nied?" 
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth 

not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts. 

Who best 10 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. 

His state 
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without 

rest; 
They also serve who only stand and 

wait." 

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIED- 
MONT 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, 

whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains 

cold; 



MILTON 



153 



Even them who kept thy truth so pure of 

old, 
When all our fathers worshipped stocks 

and stones, 
Forget not: m thy book record their 

groans _ _ 5 

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient 

fold 
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that 

rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 

moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
To heaven. Their martyred blood and 

ashes sow 10 

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth 

sway 
The triple tyrant; that from these may 

grow 
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy 

way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

TO CYRIACK SKINNER 

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, 

though clear 
To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun or moon or star throughout the 

year, 5 

Or man or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a 

jot 
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and 

steer 
Right onward. What supports me, dost 

thou ask? 
The conscience, friend, to have lost them 

overplied 10 

In liberty's defence, my noble task. 
Of which all Europe talks from side to 

side. 
This thought might lead me through the 

world's vain mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better 

guide. 



ON HIS DECEASED WIFE 

Methought I saw my late espoused saint 
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave. 



Whom Jove's great son to her glad hus- 
band gave. 

Rescued from Death by force, though pale 
and faint. 

Mine, as whom washed from spot of child- 
bed taint 5 

Purification in the old law did save, 

And such as yet once more I trust to have 

Full sight of her in Heaven without re- 
straint. 

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. 

Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied 
sight 10 

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person 
shined 

So clear as in no face with more delight. 

But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined, 

I waked, she fled, and day brought back 
my night. 



PARADISE LOST 



BOOK I 



THE ARGUMENT 



This First Book proposes, first in brief, 
the whole subject, — Man's disobedience, 
and the loss thereupon of Paradise, 
wherein he was placed: then touches 
the prime cause of his fall, — the Ser- 
pent, or rather Satan in the Serpent; 
who, revolting from God, and drawing 
to his side many legions of Angels, was, 
by the command of God, driven out of 
Heaven, with all his crew, into the great 
Deep. Which action passed over, the 
Poem hastens into the midst of things; 
presenting Satan, with his Angels, now 
fallen into Hell — described here, not in 
the Center (for Heaven and earth may 
be supposed as yet not made, certainly 
not yet accursed), but in a place of utter 
darkness, fitliest called Chaos. Here 
Satan with his Angels, lying on the burn- 
ing lake, thunderstruck and astonished, 
after a certain space recovers, as from 
confusion; calls up him who, next in 
order and dignity, lay by him: they 
confer of their miserable fall. Satan 
awakens all his legions, who lay till then 
in the same manner confounded. They 
rise; their numl^ers; arra_\' of battle; their 



154 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



chief leaders named, according to the 
idols known afterwards in Canaan and 
the countries adjoining. To these Satan 
directs his speech; comforts them with 
hope yet of regaining Heaven; but tells 
them lastly of a new world and new 
kind of creature to be created, according 
to an ancient prophecy, or report, in 
Heaven — for that Angels were long be- 
fore this visible creation was the opinion 
of many ancient Fathers. To find out 
the truth of this prophecy, and what to 
determine thereon, he refers to a full 
council. What his associates thence 
attempt. Pandemonium, the palace of 
Satan, rises, suddenly built out of the 
Deep: the infernal Peers there sit in 
council. 

Of Man's first disobedience, and the 
fruit 
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world, and all our 

woe, 
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 5 
Sing, Heavenly Muse, that on the secret 

top 
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire 
That shepherd who first taught the chosen 

seed 
In the beginning how the heavens and 

earth 
Rose out of Chaos : or, if Sion hill i o 

Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that 

flowed 
Fast^ by the oracle of God, I thence 
Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, 
That with no middle flight intends to soar 
Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues 
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. 
And chiefly Thou, Spirit, that dost pre- 
fer 17 
Before all temples the upright heart and 

pure, 
Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from 

the first 
Wast present, and, with mighty wings out- 
spread, 20 
Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast 

Abyss, 
And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is 
dark, 

' close. 



Illumine; what is low, raise and support; 
That to the highth of this great argument 
I may assert ^ Eternal Providence, 25 

And justify the ways of God to men. 

Say first — for Heaven hides nothing 
from Thy view, 
Nor the deep tract of Hell — say first what 

cause 
Moved our grand Parents, in that happy 

state, 
Favored of Heaven so highly, to fall ofif 30 
From their Creator, and transgress his will 
For ^ one restraint, lords of the world be- 
sides. 
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt? 
The infernal Serpent; he it was, whose 
guile, 
Stirred up with envy and revenge, de- 
ceived 35 
The mother of mankind, what time his 

pride 
Had cast him out from Heaven, with all 

his host 
Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring 
To set himself in glory above his peers, 
He trusted to have equalled the Most 
High, ^ _ 40 

If he opposed; and, with ambitious aim 
Against the throne and monarchy of God, 
Raised impious war in Heaven, and battle 

proud, 
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty 

Power 
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal 
sky, _ 45 

With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless perdition; there to dwell 
In adamantine chains and penal fire. 
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
Nine times the space that measures day 
and night 50 

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, 
Confounded, though immortal. But his 

doom 
Reserved him to more wrath; for now the 

thought 
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 55 
Torments him; round he throws his bale- 
ful eyes, 
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay, 
Mixed with obdurate pride, and steadfast 
hate. 



■ vindicate. 



3 because of. 



MILTON 



155 



At once, as far as Angel's ken, he views 
The dismal situation waste and wild. 60 
A dungeon horrible on all sides round 
As one great furnace flamed; yet from 

those flames 
No light; but rather darkness visible 
Served only to discover sights of woe. 
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where 

peace 65 

And rest can never dwell; hope never 

comes 
That comes to all ; but torture without end 
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed. 
Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 70 
For those rebellious; here their prison or- 
dained 
In utter darkness, and their portion set. 
As far removed from God and light of 

Heaven, 
As from the center thrice to the utmost 

pole. 
Oh how unlike the place from whence they 

feU! _ 75 

There the companions of his fall, o'er- 

whelmed 
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous 

fire. 
He soon discerns; and weltering by his 

side 
One next himself in power, and next in 

crime. 
Long after known in Palestine, and named 
Beelzebub. To whom the Arch-Enemy, 81 
And thence in Heaven called Satan, with 

bold words 
Breaking the horrid silence, thus began: — 
"If thou beest he— but oh how fallen! 

how changed 
From him who, in the happy realms of 

light, _ 85 

Clothed with transcendent brightness, 

didst outshine 
Myriads, though bright! — if he, whom 

mutual league. 
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
And hazard in the glorious enterprise, 
Joined with me once, now misery hath 

joined 90 

In equal ruin; into what pit thou seest 
From what highth fallen, so much the 

stronger proved 
He with his thunder: and till then who 

knew 



The force of those dire arms? Yet not for 

those, 
Nor what the potent Victor in his rage 95 
Can else inflict, do I repent or change, 
Though changed in outward luster, that 

fixed mind, 
And high disdain from sense of injured 

merit. 
That with the Mightiest raised me to 

contend, 
And to the fierce contention brought along 
Innumerable force of Spirits armed, loi 
That durst dislike his reign, and, me pre- 
ferring, 
His utmost power with adverse power op- 
posed 
In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven, 
And shook his throne. What though the 
field be lost? 105 

All is not lost: the unconquerable will, 
And study of revenge, immortal hate. 
And courage never to submit or yield. 
And what is else not to be overcome; 
That glory never shall his wrath or might 
Extort from me. To bow and sue for 
grace m 

With suppliant knee, and deify his power 
Who, from the terror of this arm, so late 
Doubted his empire^ — that were low in- 
deed; 
That were an ignominy and shame be- 
neath 115 
This downfall ; since by fate the strength of 

gods 
And this empyreal substance cannot fail; 
Since, through experience of this great 

event. 
In arms not worse, in foresight much ad- 
vanced. 
We may with more successful hope re- 
solve 120 
To wage by force or guile eternal war. 
Irreconcilable to our grand Foe, 
Who now triumphs, and in the excess of 

joy 
Sole reigning holds the tyranny of 
Heaven." 
So spake the apostate Angel, though in 
pain, 125 

Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep de- 
spair; 
And him thus answered soon his bold com- 
peer: — 

' sovereignty. 



156 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



"O Prince! O Chief of many throned 

powers 

That led the embattled Seraphim to war 

Under thy conduct/ and, in dreadful 

deeds 130 

Fearless, endangered Heaven's perpetual 

King, 
And put to proof his high supremacy, 
Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or 

fate! 
Too well I see and rue the dire event 
That with sad overthrow and foul de- 
feat _ 135 
Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty 

host 
In horrible destruction laid thus low, 
As far as gods and heavenly essences 
Can perish: for the mind and spirit re- 
mains 
Invincible, and vigor soon returns, 140 
Though all our glory extinct, and happy 

state 
Here swallowed up in endless misery. 
But what if he our Conqueror (whom I 

now 
Of force believe almighty, since no less 
Than such could have o'erpowered such 
force as ours) 145 

Have left us this our spirit and strength 

entire. 
Strongly to suffer and support our pains, 
That we may so suffice^ his vengeful ire. 
Or do him mightier service as his thralls 
By right of war, whate'er his business 
be, 150 

Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire. 
Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep? 
What can it then avail, though yet we feel 
Strength undiminished, or eternal being 
To undergo eternal punishment?" 155 
Whereto with speedy words the Arch- 
Fiend replied: — 
" Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable, 
Doing or suffering: but of this be sure — 
To do aught good never will be our task, 
But ever to do ill our sole delight, 160 
As being the contrary to his high will 
Whom we resist. If then his providence 
Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, 
Our labor must be to pervert that end. 
And out of good still to find means of evil; 
Which ofttimes may succeed so as per- 
haps 166 



' command. 



~ satisfy. 



Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb 
His inmost counsels from their destined 

aim. 
But see! the angry Victor hath recalled 
His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 1 70 
Back to the gates of Heaven; the sul- 
phurous hail. 
Shot after us in storm, o'erblown hath 

laid 
The fiery surge that from the precipice 
Of Heaven received us falling; and the 

thunder. 
Winged with red lightning and impetuous 
rage, 175 

Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases 

now 
To bellow through the vast and boundless 

Deep. 
Let us not slip^^ the occasion, whether scorn 
Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe. 
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and 
wild, 180 

The seat of desolation, void of light, 
Save what the glimmering of these livid 

flames 
Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us 

tend 
From off the tossing of these fiery waves; 
There rest, if any rest can harbor there; 185 
And, reassembling our afflicted powers, 
Consult how we may henceforth most of- 
fend 
Our Enemy, our own loss how repair. 
How overcome this dire calamity, 
What reinforcement we may gain from 
hope, iQo 

If not what resolution from despair." 

Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate, 
With head uplift above the wave, and eyes 
That sparkhng blazed; his other parts be- 
sides, 
Prone on the flood, extended long and 
large, 105 

Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 
As whom^ the fables name of monstrous 

size, 
Titanian, or Earth-born, that warred on 

Jove, 
Briareos or Typhon, whom the den 
By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast 
Leviathan, which God of all his works 201 
Created hugest that swim the ocean- 
stream. 



' let slip. 



* those whom. 



MILTON 



T-S1 



Him, haply slumbering on the Norway 

foam, 
The pilot of some small night-foundered^ 

skiff 
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, 
With fixed anchor in his scaly rind, 206 
Moors by his side under the lee, while 

night 
Invests the sea, and wished morn delays. 
So stretched out huge in length the Arch- 
Fiend lay, 
Chained on the burning lake; nor ever 

thence 210 

Had risen or heaved his head, but that the 

will 
And high permission of all-ruling Heaven 
Left him at large to his own dark de- 
signs, 
That with reiterated crimes he might 
Heap on himself damnation, while he 

sought 215 

Evil to others, and enraged might see 
How all his malice served but to bring 

forth 
Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shown 
On Man by him seduced; but on himself 
Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance 

poured. 220 

Forthwith upright he rears from off the 

pool 
His mighty stature; on each hand the 

flames 
Driven backward slope their pointing 

spires, and, rolled 
In billows, leave i' the midst a horrid vale. 
Then with expanded wings he steers his 

flight 225 

Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 
That felt unusual weight; till on dry 

land 
He lights — if it were land that ever burned 
With solid, as the lake with liquid fire, 
And such appeared in hue, as when the 

force 230 

Of subterranean wind transports a hill 
Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side 
Of thundering ^Etna, whose combustible 
And fuelled entrails thence conceiving fire, 
Sublimed"- with mineral fur}', aid the 

winds, 235 

.And leave a singed bottom all invoh'ed 
With stench and smoke: such resting found 

the sole 



' overtaken by night. 



■ sublimated. 



Of unblest feet. Him followed his next 

mate. 
Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian 

flood 
As gods, and by their own recovered 

strength, 240 

Not by the sufferance of supernal power. 
"Is this the region, this the soil, the 

clime," 
Said then the lost Archangel, " this the seat 
That we must change for Heaven? this 

mournful gloom 
For that celestial light? Be it so, since 

he _ _ 245 

Who now is sovran can dispose and bid 
What shall be right: farthest from him is 

best, 
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath 

made supreme 
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields. 
Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! 

hail, 250 

Infernal world! and thou, profoundest 

Hell, 
Receive thy new possessor, one who brings 
A mind not to be changed by place or time. 
The mind is its own place, and in itself 
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of 

Heaven. 255 

What matter where, if I be still the same, 
And what I should be, all but^ less than he 
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here 

at least 
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not 

built 
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence : 
Here we may reign secure, and in my 

choice 261 

To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell : 
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in 

Heaven. 
But wherefore let we then our faithful 

friends, 
The associates and co-partners of our 

loss, 265 

Lie thus astonished"* on the oblivious pool. 
And call them not to share with us their 

part 
In this unhappy mansion, or once more 
With raUied arms to try what may be yet 
Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in 

Hell?" 270 

So Satan spake; and him Beelzebub 

' onlv. 'confounded. 



158 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Thus answered: — "Leader of those armies 

bright 
Which but the Omnipotent none could 

have foiled, 
If once they hear that voice, their liveliest 

pledge 
Of hope in fears and dangers — heard so 

oft 275 

In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge 
Of battle when it raged, in all assaults 
Their surest signal — they will soon resume 
New courage and revive, though now they 

lie 
Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of 

fire, 280 

As we erewhile, astounded and amazed: 
No wonder, fallen such a pernicious 

highth!" 
He scarce had ceased when the superior 

Fiend 
Was moving toward the shore ; his ponder- 
ous shield, 
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 
Behind him cast. The broad circum- 
ference 286 
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, 

whose orb 
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist 

views 
At evening from the top of Fesole, 
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 290 
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. 
His spear — to equal which the tallest pine 
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast 
Of some great ammiral,^ were but a 

wand — 
He walked with, to support uneasy 

steps 295 

Over the burning marl,^ not like those 

steps 
On Heaven's azure; and the torrid clime 
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with 

fire. 
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach 
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called 
His legions. Angel forms, who lay en- 
tranced, 301 
Thick as autumnal leaves, that strew the 

brooks 
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian 

shades. 
High over-arched, embower; or scattered 

sedge 

1 flag-ship. ' soil. 



Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion 

armed 305 

Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose 

waves o'erthrew 
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry, 
While with perfidious hatred they pursued 
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld 
From the safe shore their floating car- 
casses 310 
And broken chariot-wheels. So thick be- 

strown. 
Abject and lost lay these, covering the 

flood. 
Under amazement of^ their hideous 

change. 
He called so loud, that all the hollow deep 
Of Hell resounded: — "Princes, Poten- 
tates, 315 
Warriors, the Flower of Heaven, — once 

yours, now lost. 
If such astonishment as this can seize 
Eternal Spirits! Or have ye chosen this 

place 
After the toil of battle to repose 
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you 
find 320 

To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven? 
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 
To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds 
Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood 
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 
His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates dis- 
cern 326 
The advantage, and descending tread us 

down 
Thus drooping, or with linked thunder- 
bolts 
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf? 
Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n!" 330 
They heard, and were abashed, and up 
they sprung 
Upon the wing; as when men, wont to 

watch. 
On duty sleeping found by whom they 

dread. 
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well 

awake. 

Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 

In which they were, or the fierce pains not 

feel; 336 

Yet to their General's voice they soon 

obeyed, 
Innumerable. As when the potent rod 

' overwhelmed by. 



MILTON 



159 



Of Amram's son/ in Egypt's evil day, 
Waved round the coast, up-called a pitchy 

cloud 340 

Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, 
That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh 

hung 
Like night, and darkened all the land of 

Nile: 
So numberless were those bad Angels seen 
Hovering on wing under the cope of Hell, 
'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding 

fires; 346 

Till, as a signal given, the upUfted spear 
Of their great Sultan waving to direct 
Their course, in even balance down they 

light 
On the firm brimstone, and fill all the 

plain: 350 

A multitude like which the populous 

North 
Poured never from her frozen loins, to 

pass 
Rhene or the Danaw," when her barbarous 

sons 
Came like a deluge on the South, and 

spread 
Beneath^ Gibraltar to the Libyan sands. 
Forthwith from every squadron and each 

band 356 

The heads and leaders thither haste where 

stood 
Their great Commander; godlike shapes, 

and forms 
Excelling human, princely Dignities, 
And Powers that erst in Heaven sat on 

thrones; 360 

Though of their names in Heavenly records 

now 
Be no memorial, blotted out and rased 
By their rebellion from the Books of Life. 
Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve 
Got them new names, till, wandering o'er 

the Earth, 365 

Through God's high sufferance, for the 

trial of man, 
By falsities and lies the greatest part 
Of mankind they corrupted to forsake 
God their Creator, and the invisible 
Glory of him that made them, to trans- 
form 370 
Oft to the image of a brute, adorned 
With gay religions'* full of pomp and gold, 
And devils to adore for deities: 



' Moses. 



Danube. 



' south of. 



Then were they known to men by various 

names, 
And various idols through the heathen 

world. 375 

Say, Muse, their names then known, 

who first, who last, 
Roused from the slumber on that fiery 

couch, 
At their great Emperor's call, as next in 

worth, 
Came singly where he stood on the bare 

strand. 
While the promiscuous crowd stood yet 

aloof. 380 

The chief were those who from the pit of 

Hell 
Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst 

fix 
Their seats, long after, next the seat of 

God, 
Their altars by his altar, gods adored 
Among the nations round, and durst 

abide 385 

Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned 
Between the Cherubim; yea, often placed 
Within his sanctuary itself their shrines, 
Abominations ; and with cursed things 
His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned. 
And with their darkness durst affront his 

light. 391 

First, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with 

blood 
Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears; 
Though, for the noise of drums and tim- 
brels loud. 
Their children's cries unheard that passed 

through fire 395 

To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite 
Worshipped in Rabba and her watery 

plain, 
In Argob and in Basan, to the stream 
Of utmost Arnon. Nor content \\dth such 
Audacious neighborhood, the wisest heart 
Of Solomon he led by fraud to build 401 
His temple right against the temple of 

God, 
On that opprobrious hill, and made his 

grove 
The pleasant valley of Hinnom, Tophet 

thence 
And black Gehenna called, the type of 

Hell. 405 

Next, Chemos, the obscene dread of 

Moab's sons, 



i6o 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



From Aroer to Nebo and the wild 
Of southmost Abarim; in Hesebon 
And Horonaim, S eon's realm, beyond 
The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines, 
And Eleale to the Asphaltic pool ; 41 1 

Peor his other name, when he enticed 
Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile, 
To do him wanton rites, which cost them 

woe. 
Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged 415 
Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove 
Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate. 
Till good Josiah drove them thence to 

Hell. 
With these came they who, from the 

bordering flood 
Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts 
Egypt from Syrian ground, had general 

names 421 

Of Baalim and Ashtaroth: those male. 
These feminine. For Spirits, when they 

please. 
Can either sex assume, or both; so soft 
And uncompounded is their essence pure. 
Not tied or manacled with joint or limb, 426 
Nor founded on the brittle strength of 

bones. 
Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape 

they choose, 
Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure, 
Can execute their aery purposes, 430 

And works of love or enmity fulfil. 
For those the race of Israel oft forsook 
Their living Strength, and unfrequented 

left 
His righteous altar, bowing lowly down 
To bestial gods; for which their heads as 

low 435 

Bowed down in battle, sunk before the 

spear 
Of despicable foes. With these in troop 
Came Astoreth, whom the Phenicians 

called 
Astarte, Queen of Heaven, with crescent 

horns; 
To whose bright image nightly by the 

moon 440 

Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs ; 
In Sion also not unsung, where stood 
Her temple on the offensive mountain, 

built 
By that uxorious king whose heart, though 

large. 
Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell 445 



To idols foul. Thammuz came next be- 
hind. 
Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured 
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate 
In amorous ditties all a summer's day. 
While smooth Adonis from his native rock 
Ran purple to the sea, supposed with 
blood 451 

Of Thammuz yearly wounded: the love- 
tale 
Infected Sion's daughters with like heat, 
Whose wanton passions in the sacred 

porch 
Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led, 455 
His eye surveyed the dark idolatries 
Of alienated Judah. Next came one 
Who mourned in earnest, when the captive 

ark 
Maimed his brute image, head and hands 

lopt off 
In his own temple, on the grunsel-edge,^ 460 
Where he fell flat, and shamed his wor- 
shippers: 
Dagon his name, sea-monster, upward 

man 
And downward fish; yet had his temple 

high 
Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the 

coast 
Of, Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon, 465 

And Accaron and Gaza's frontier bounds. 
Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful 

seat 
Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks 
Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams. 
He also against the house of God was bold: 
A leper once he lost, and gained a king, 471 
Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew 
God's altar to disparage and displace 
For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn 
His odious offerings, and adore the gods 475 
Whom he had vanquished. After these 

appeared 
A crew who, under names of old renown, 
Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train, 
With monstrous shapes and sorceries 

abused" 
Fanatic Egypt and her priests, to seek 480 
Their wandering gods disguised in brutish 

forms 
Rather than human. Nor did Israel scape 
The infection, when their borrowed gold 
composed 



' threshold. 



^ deceived. 



MILTON 



i6i 



The calf in Oreb, and the rebel king 
Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan, 485 
Likening his Maker to the grazed ox — 
Jehovah, who, in one night, when he 

passed 
From Egypt marching, equalled with one 

stroke 
Both her first-born and all her bleating 

gods. 
Belial came last, than whom a Spirit more 

lewd 490 

Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to 

love 
Vice for itself. To him no temple stood 
Or altar smoked; yet who more oft than 

he 
In temples and at altars, when the priest 
Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled 
With lust and violence the house of God? 
In courts and palaces he also reigns, 497 
And in luxurious cities, where the noise 
Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers, 
And injury and outrage; and when night 
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the 

sons 501 

Of Belial, flown^ with insolence and wine. 
Witness the streets of Sodom, and that 

night 
In Gibeah, when the hospitable door 
Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape. 505 
These were the prime in order and in 

might; 
The rest were long to tell, though far re- 
nowned 
The Ionian gods — of Javan's issue held 
Gods, yet confessed later than Heaven and 

Earth, 
Their boasted parents; — Titan, Heaven's 

first-born, 510 

With his enormous brood, and birthright 

seized 
By younger Saturn; he from mightier Jove, 
His owTi and Rhea's son, like measure 

found; 
So Jove usurping reigned. These, first in 

Crete 
And Ida known, thence on the snowy top 
Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air, 516 
Their highest Heaven ; or on the Delphian 

cliflF, 
Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds 
Of Doric land; or who with Saturn old 
Fled over Adria to the Hesperian fields, 520 

' flushed. 



And o'er the Celtic roamed the utmost 
isles. 
All these and more came flocking; but 
with looks 

Downcast and damp, yet such wherein 
appeared 

Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have 
found their Chief 

Not in despair, to have found themselves 
not lost 525 

In loss itself; which on his countenance 
cast 

Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted 
pride 

Soon recollecting,^ with high words that 
bore 

Semblance of worth, not substance, gently 
raised 

Their fainting courage, and dispelled their 
fears: 530 

Then straight commands that at the war- 
like sound 

Of trumpets loud and clarions, be up- 
reared 

His mighty standard. That proud honor 
claimed 

Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall: 

Who forthwith from the glittering staff 
unfurled _ 535 

The imperial ensign, which, full high ad- 
vanced, 

Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind. 

With gems and golden lustre rich em- 
blazed, 

Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while 

Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds :s4o 

At which the universal host up-sent 

A shout that tore Hell's concave, and be- 
yond 

Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 

All in a moment through the gloom were 
seen 

Ten thousand banners rise into the air, 545 

With orient colors wa\dng; with them rose 

A forest huge of spears; and thronging 
helms 

Appeared, and serried'' shields in thick 
array 

Of depth immeasurable. Anon they move 

In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 550 

Of flutes and soft recorders"* — such as 
raised 

To highth of noblest temper heroes old 

- recovering. ■■ interlocked. * llageolets. 



l62 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Arming to battle, and instead of rage 

Deliberate valor breathed, firm and un- 
moved 

With dread of death to flight or foul re- 
treat; _ 555 

Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage, ^ 

With solemn touches troubled thoughts, 
and chase 

Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow 
and pain 

From mortal or immortal minds. Thus 
they. 

Breathing united force with fixed thought, 

Moved on in silence to soft pipes that 
charmed 561 

Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil; and 
now 

Advanced in view they stand, a horrid 
front 

Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in 
guise 

Of warriors old, with ordered spear and 
shield, 565 

Awaiting what command their mighty 
Chief 

Had to impose. He through the armed 
files 

Darts his experienced eye, and soon trav- 
erse- 

The whole battalion views — their order 
due, 

Their visages and stature as of gods ; 570 

Their number last he sums. And now his 
heart 

Distends with pride, and hardening in his 
strength, 

Glories; for never, since created man. 

Met such embodied force as, named^ with 
these, 

Could merit more than that small in- 
fantry 575 

Warred on by cranes: though all the giant 
brood 

Of Phlegra with the heroic race were joined 

That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each 
side 

Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what re- 
sounds 

In fable or romance of Uther's son, 580 

Begirt with British and Armoric knights; 

And all who since, baptized or infidel, 

Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban, 

Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond; 



Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore 585 
When Charlemain with all his peerage fell 
By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond 
Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed^ 
Their dread Commander. He, above the 

rest 
In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 590 
Stood like a tower; his form had yet not 

lost 
All her original brightness, nor appeared 
Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess 
Of glory obscured: as when the sun new- 
risen 
Looks through the horizontal misty air 595 
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the 

moon. 
In dim eclipse, disastrous^ twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of 

change 
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet 

shone 
Above them all the Archangel; but his 
face 600 

Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and 

care 
Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 
I Of dauntless courage, and considerate^ 
j pride 

I Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast 
Signs of remorse and passion, to behold 605 
The fellows of his crime, the followers 

rather 
(Far other once beheld in bliss), con- 
demned 
Forever now to have their lot in pain; 
Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced^ 
Of Heaven, and from eternal splendors 
flung 610 

For his revolt; yet faithful how they 

stood. 
Their glory withered: as, when Heaven's 

fire 
Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain 

pines. 
With singed top their stately growth, 

though bare. 
Stands on the blasted heath. He now pre- 
pared 615 
To speak; whereat their doubled ranks 

they bend 
From wing to wing, and half enclose him 
round 



1 assuage. 



3 compared. 



* obeyed. 
^ meditative. 



' threatening disaster. 
' deprived. 



MILTON 



163 



With all his peers: attention held them 

mute. 
Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of 

scorn, 
Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth : at 
last 620 

Words interwove with sighs found out 
their way: — 
"O myriads of immortal Spirits! O 
Powers 
Matchless, but with the Almighty! — and 

that strife 
Was not inglorious, though the event^ was 

dire. 
As this place testifies, and this dire change, 
Hateful to utter. But what power of 
mind, 626 

Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
Of knowledge past or present, could have 

feared 
How such united force of gods, how such 
As stood Hke these, could ever know re- 
pulse? 630 
For who can yet believe, though after 

loss. 
That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re- 
ascend. 
Self-raised, and repossess their native 

seat? 
For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, 
If counsels different, or danger shunned 636 
By me, have lost our hopes. But he who 

reigns 
Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure 
Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute. 
Consent or custom, and his regal state 640 
Put forth at full, but still his strength con- 
cealed ; 
Which tempted our attempt, and wrought 

our fall. 
Henceforth his might we know, and know 

our own. 
So as not either to provoke, or dread 
New war provoked. Our better part re- 
mains 645 
To work'- in close design, by fraud or guile, 
What force effected not; that he no less 
At length from us may find, who over- 
comes 
By force hath overcome but half his foe. 
Space may produce new worlds; whereof 
so rife 650 

' outcome. - accomplish. 



There went a fame in Heaven that he ere 

long 
Intended to create, and therein plant 
A generation whom his choice regard 
Should favor equal to the Sons of Heaven. 
Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 655 
Our first eruption;^ thither, or elsewhere; 
For this infernal pit shall never hold 
Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the 

Abyss 
Long under darkness cover. But these 

thoughts 
Full counsel must mature. Peace is de- 
spaired, 660 
For who can think submission? War, 

then, war. 
Open or understood,"* must be resolved." 
He spake; and, to confirm his words, 

outflew 
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the 

thighs 
Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze 665 
Far round illumined Hell; highly they 

raged 
Against the Highest, and fierce with 

grasped arms 
Clashed on their sounding shields the din 

of war. 
Hurling defiance toward the vault of 

Heaven. 
There stood a hill not far, whose grisly 

top 670 

Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest en- 
tire 
Shone with a glossy scurf, undoubted sign 
That in his womb was hid metallic ore. 
The work of sulphur. Thither, winged 

with speed, 
A mmierous brigad hastened: as when 

bands 675 

Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe 

armed, 
Forenm the royal camp, to trench a field. 
Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them 

on: 
Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell 
From Heaven; for even in Heaven his 

looks and thoughts 680 

Were always downward bent, admiring 

more 
The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden 

gold. 
Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed 

■■ sortie. * secretly decided on. 



164 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



In vision beatific. By him first 

Men also, and by his suggestion taught, 685 

Ransacked the Center, and with impious 

hands 
Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth 
For treasures, better hid. Soon had his 

crew 
Opened into the hill a spacious wound, 
And digged out ribs of gold. Let none 
. admire^ 690 

That riches grow in Hell; that soil may 

best 
Deserve the precious bane. And here let 

those 
Who boast in mortal things, and wonder- 
ing tell 
Of Babel, and the works of Memphian 

kings, 
Learn how their greatest monuments of 

fame, 695 

And strength and art, are easily outdone 
By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour 
What in an age they, with incessant toil 
And hands innumerable, scarce perform. 
Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, 
That underneath had veins of liquid fire 701 
Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude 
With wondrous art founded" the massy 

ore, 
Severing^ each kind, and scummed the 

bullion dross. 
A third as soon had formed within the 

ground 705 

A various mold, and from the boiling cells. 
By strange conveyance, filled each hollow 

nook: 
As in an organ, from one blast of wind, 
To many a row of pipes the sound-board 

breathes. 
Anon, out of the earth a fabric huge 710 
Rose like an exhalation, with the sound 
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet — 
Built like a temple, where pilasters round 
Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid 
With golden architrave; nor did there 

want 715 

Cornice or frieze, with bossy^ sculptures 

graven: 
The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon, 
Nor great Alcairo, such magnificence 
Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine 
Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat 720 



1 wonder. 
3 separating. 



= melted. 

4 embossed, in high relief. 



Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria 

strove 
In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile 
Stood fixed her stately highth, and straight 

the doors. 
Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide 
Within, her ample spaces o'er the smooth 
And level pavement; from the arched 

roof, 726 

Pendent by subtle magic, many a row 
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed 
With naphtha and asphaltus, yielded light 
As from a sky. The hasty multitude 730 
Admiring entered, and the work some 

praise. 
And some the architect. His hand was 

known 
In Heaven by many a towered structure 

high 
Where sceptered Angels held their res- 
idence. 
And sat as Princes, whom the supreme 

King 735 

Exalted to such power, and gave to rule, 
Each in his hierarchy, the Orders bright. 
Nor was his name unheard or unadored 
In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land 
Men called him Mulciber; and how he 

fell 740 

From Heaven they fabled, thrown by 

angry Jove 
Sheer o'er the crystal battlements: from 

morn 
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, 
A summer's day; and with the setting sun 
Dropped from the zenith like a falling 

star, 745 

On Lemnos, the ^gean isle. Thus they 

relate. 
Erring; for he with this rebelHous rout 
Fell long before; nor aught availed him 

now 
To have built in Heaven high towers; nor 

did he scape 
By all his engines,^ but was headlong 

sent 750 

With his industrious crew to build in Hell. 
Meanwhile, the winged heralds, by com- 
mand 
Of sovran power, with awful ceremony 
And trumpet's sound, throughout the 

host proclaim 
A solemn council forthwith to be held 75 s 

6 contrivances. 



MILTON 



165 



At Pandemonium, the high capital 

Of Satan and his peers. Their summons 

called 
From every band and squared regiment 
By place or choice the worthiest; they 

anon, 
With hundreds and with thousands, troop- 
ing came, 760 
Attended. All access was thronged; the 

gates 
And porches wide, but chief the spacious 

hall 
(Though like a covered field, where cham- 
pions bold 
Wont^ ride in armed, and at the Soldan's 

chair 
Defied the best of Panim^ chivalry 765 

To mortal combat, or career with lance), 
Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in 

the air. 
Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. 

As bees 
In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus 

rides. 
Pour forth their populous youth about the 

hive 770 

In clusters; they aniong fresh dews and 

flowers 
Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank. 
The suburb of their straw-built citadel, 
New rubbed with balm, expatiate^ and 

confer^ 
Their state-affairs. So thick the aery 

crowd 775 

Swarmed and were straitened; till, the 

signal given. 
Behold a wonder! they but now who 

seemed 
In bigness to surpass Earth's giant sons. 
Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow 

room 
Throng numberless, like that pygmean 

race 780 

Beyond the Indian mount; or faery elves. 
Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side 
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees. 
Or dreams he sees, while overhead the 

Moon 
Sits arbitress,^ and nearer to the Earth 785 
Wheels her pale course; they, on their 

mirth and dance 
Intent, with jocund music charm his ear; 



' used to. 
* discuss. 



3 walk about. 
' governess. 



At once with joy and fear his heart re- 
bounds. 
Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms 
Reduced their shapes immense, and were 
at large, 790 

Though without number still, amidst the 

hall 
Of that infernal court. But far within. 
And in their own dimensions like them- 
selves. 
The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim 
In close recess^ and secret conclave sat, 795 
A thousand demi-gods on golden seats. 
Frequent'^ and full. After short silence 

then. 
And summons read, the great consult 
began. 

BOOK II 

THE ARGUMENT 

The consultation begun, Satan debates 
whether another battle be to be haz- 
arded for the recovery of Heaven: 
some advise it, others dissuade. A 
third proposal is preferred, mentioned 
before by Satan — ^to search the truth 
of that prophecy or tradition in Heaven 
concerning another world, and another 
kind of creature, equal, or not much 
inferior, to themselves, about this time 
to be created. Their doubt who shall 
be sent on this difficult search: Satan, 
their chief, undertakes alone the voy- 
age; is honored and applauded. The 
council thus ended, the rest betake 
them several ways and to several em- 
ployments, as their inclinations lead 
them, to entertain the time till Satan 
return. He passes on his journey to 
Hell-gates, finds them shut, and who 
sat there to guard them; by whom at 
length they are opened, and discover 
to him the great gulf between Hell 
and Heaven; with what difficulty he 
passes through, directed by Chaos, the 
Power of that place, to the sight of 
this new World which he sought. 

High on a throne of royal state, which far 
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of 
Ind, 



« retirement. 



' crowded. 



i66 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Or where the gorgeous East with richest 

hand 
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and 

gold, 
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised 5 

To that bad eminence; and, from despair 
Thus high upUfted beyond hope, aspires 
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue 
Vain war with Heaven; and, by success^ 

untaught. 
His proud imaginations thus displayed: — 
"Powers and Dominions, Deities of 

Heaven ! i r 

For since no deep within her gulf can hold 
Immortal vigor, though oppressed and 

fallen, 
I give not Heaven for lost: from this de- 
scent 
Celestial Virtues rising will appear 15 

More glorious and more dread than from 

no fall. 
And trust themselves to fear no second 

fate! 
Me though just right, and the fixed laws of 

Heaven, 
Did first create your leader, next, free 

choice, 
With what besides in council or in fight 20 
Hath been achieved of merit, yet this loss. 
Thus far at least recovered, hath much 

more 
Established in a safe, unenvied throne, 
Yielded with full consent. The happier 

state 
In Heaven, which follows dignity, might 

draw 25 

Envy from each inferior; but who here 
Will envy whom the highest place exposes 
Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's 

aim 
Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest 

share 
Of endless pain? Where there is, then, no 

good 
For which to strive, no strife can grow up 

there 31 

From faction: for none sure will claim in 

Hell 
Precedence; none whose portion is so small 
Of present pain that with ambitious mind 
Will covet more! With this advantage, 

then, 35 

To union, and firm faith, and firm accord, 

1 the event. 



More than can be in Heaven, we now re- 
turn 
To claim our just inheritance of old. 
Surer to prosper than prosperity 
Could have assured us; and by what best 
way, 40 

Whether of open war or covert guile. 
We now debate. Who can advise may 
speak." 
He ceased; and next him Moloch, scep- 
tred king, 
Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest 

Spirit 
That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by 
despair. 45 

His trust was with the Eternal to be 

deemed 
Equal in strength, and rather than be less 
Cared not to be at all; with that care 

lost 
Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse. 
He recked not, and these words thereafter 
spake: — 50 

"My sentence^ is for open war. Of wiles, 
More unexpert, I boast not: them let those 
Contrive who need, or when they need; 

not now. 
For while they sit contriving, shall the 

rest — 
Millions that stand in arms, and longing 
wait 55 

The signal to ascend — sit lingering here. 
Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling- 
place 
Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, 
The prison of his tyranny who reigns 
By our delay? No! let us rather choose, 60 
Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at 

once 
O'er Heaven's high towers to force resist- 
less way. 
Turning our tortures into horrid arms 
Against the Torturer; when, to meet the 

noise 
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear 65 
Infernal thunder, and for lightning see 
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 
Among his Angels, and his throne itself 
Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange 
fire, 69 

His own invented torments. But perhaps 
The way seems difiicult and steep to scale 
With upright wing against a higher foe? 

2 judgment. 



MILTON 



167 



Let such bethink them, if the sleepy 

drench 
Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, 
That in our proper motion we ascend 75 
Up to our native seat; descent and fall 
To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, 
When the fierce foe hung on our broken 

rear 
Insulting, and pursued us through the 

deep, 
With what compulsion and laborious 

flight 80 

We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy, 

then; 
The event is feared? Should we again 

provoke 
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath 

may find 
To our destruction — if there be in Hell 
Fear to be worse destroyed? What can be 

worse 85 

Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, 

condemned 
In this abhorred deep to utter woe ; 
Where pain of unextinguishable fire 
Must exercise us, without hope of end. 
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 
Inexorably, and the torturing hour, 91 
Calls us to penance? More destroyed 

than thus. 
We should be quite abolished, and expire. 
What fear we then? what doubt we to 

incense 
His utmost ire? which, to the highth en- 
raged, 95 
Will either quite consume us, and reduce 
To nothing this essentiaP — happier far 
Than miserable to have eternal being I — 
Or, if our substance be indeed divine. 
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 100 
On this side nothing ; and by proof we feel 
Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven, 
And w'Xh. perpetual inroads to alarm, 
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne: 
Which, if not victor)', is yet revenge." 105 
He ended frowning, and his look de- 

nounced- 
Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous 
To less than gods. On the other side up 

rose 
Belial, in act more graceful and humane; 
A fairer person lost not Heaven ; he seemed 
For dignity composed, and high exploit.: n 

' this being of ours. • threatened. 



But all was false and hollow; though his 

tongue 
Dropped manna, and could make the 

worse appear 
The better reason, to perplex and dash 
Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were 

low 115 

To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds 
Timorous and slothful. Yet he pleased 

the ear. 
And with persuasive accent thus began : — 
"I should be much for open war, O Peers, 
As not behind in hate, if what was urged 
Main reason to persuade immediate war 
Did not dissuade me most, and seem to 

cast 122 

Ominous conjecture on the whole success; 
When he who most excels in fact of arms. 
In what he counsels and in what excels 125 
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on de- 
spair 
And utter dissolution, as the scope 
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 
First, what revenge? The towers of 

Heaven are filled 
With armed watch, that render all access 
Impregnable: oft on the bordering deep 13: 
Encamp their legions, or with obscure 

wing 
Scout far and wide into the realm of Night, 
Scorning surprise. Or could we break our 

way 
By force, and at our heels all Hell should 

rise ^ 135 

With blackest insurrection, to confound 
Heaven's purest light, yet our great 

Enemy, 
All incorruptible, would on his throne 
Sit unpolluted, and the ethereal mould. 
Incapable of stain, would soon expel 140 
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, 
Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope 
Is flat despair: we must exasperate 
The Almighty Victor to spend all his 

rage. 
And that must end us; that must be our 

cure — 145 

To be no more. Sad cure! for who would 

lose. 
Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 
Those thoughts that wander through 

eternity. 
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
In the wide womb of uncreated Night, 150 



i68 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Devoid of sense and motion? And who 

knows, 
Let this be good, whether our angry Foe 
Can give it, or will ever? How he can 
Is doubtful; that he never will is sure. 
Will He, so wise, let loose at once his ire,i55 
Belike through impotence, or unaware. 
To give his enemies their wish, and end 
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves 
To punish endless? 'Wherefore cease we 

then?' 
Say they who counsel war; 'we are decreed, 
Reserved, and destined to eternal woe; i6i 
Whatever doing, what can we suffer more. 
What can we suffer worse?' Is this then 

worst, 
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? 
What when we fled amain, pursued and 
strook 165 

With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and be- 
sought 
The Deep to shelter us? This Hell then 

seemed 
A refuge from those wounds. Or when w^e 

lay 
Chained on the burning lake? That sure 

was worse. 
What if the breath that kindled those grim 
fires, 170 

Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold 

rage, 
And plunge us in the flames; or from above 
Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
His red right hand to plague us? What if 

all 
Her stores were opened, and this firma- 
ment 175 
Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire. 
Impendent horrors, threatening hideous 

fall 
One day upon our heads; while we per- 
haps. 
Designing or exhorting glorious war, 
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled, 
Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and 
prey 181 

Of racking whirlwinds, or forever sunk 
Under yon boiling ocean, wrapped in 

chains, 
There to converse with everlasting groans, 
Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, 185 
Ages of hopeless end? This would be 

worse. 
War therefore, open or concealed, alike 



My voice dissuades: for what can^ force or 

guile 
With him, or who deceive his mind, whose 

eye 
Views all things at one view? He from 
Heaven's highth 190 

All these our motions vain sees and de- 
rides; 
Not more almighty to resist our might 
Than wise to frustrate all our plots and 

wiles. 
Shall we, then, live thus vile — the race of 

Heaven 
Thus trampled, thus expelled to suffer here 
Chains. and these torments? Better these 
than worse, 196 

By my advice; since fate inevitable 
Subdues us, and omnipotent decree, 
The Victor's will. To suft'er, as to do. 
Our strength is equal; nor the law unjust 
That so ordains: this was at first resolved, 
If we were wise, against so great a foe 202 
Contending, and so doubtful what might 

fan. 
I laugh when those who at the spear are 

bold 
And venturous, if that fail them, shrink, 
and fear 205 

What yet they know must follow — to en- 
dure 
Exile, or ignominy, or bonds, or pain, 
The sentence of their conqueror. This is 

now 
Our doom; which if we can sustain and 

bear, 
Our Supreme Foe in time may much remit 
His anger, and perhaps, thus far removed. 
Not mind us not offending, satisfied 212 
With what is punished; whence these rag- 
ing fires 
Will slacken, if his breath stir not their 

flames. 
Our purer essence then will overcome 215 
Their noxious vapor, or, inured, not feel; 
Or, changed at length, and to the place 

conformed 
In temper and in nature, will receive 
Familiar the fierce heat; and, void of pain. 
This horror will grow mild, this darkness 
light; 220 

Besides what hope the never-ending flight 
Of future days may bring, what chance, 
what change 

1 avail. 



MILTON 



169 



Worth waiting, — since our present lot ap- 
pears 
For happy though but ill, for ill not worst. 
If we procure not to ourselves more woe." 
Thus Belial, with words clothed in rea- 
son's garb, 226 
Counselled ignoble ease and peaceful sloth. 
Not peace; and after him thus Mammon 
spake: — 
"Either to disenthrone the King of 
Heaven 
We war, if war be best, or to regain 230 
Our own right lost. Him to unthrone we 

then 
May hope, when everlasting Fate shall 

yield 
To tickle Chance, and Chaos judge the 

strife. 
The former, vain to hope, argues as vain 
The latter; for what place can be for us 235 
Within Heaven's bound, unless Heaven's 

Lord Supreme 
We overpower? Suppose he should relent, 
And publish grace to all, on promise made 
Of new subjection; with what eyes could 
we _ 239 

Stand in his presence, humble, and receive 
Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne 
With warbled hymns, and to his Godhead 

sing 
Forced Halleluiahs, while he lordly sits 
Our envied sovran, and his altar breathes 
Ambrosial odors and ambrosial flowers, 245 
Our servile offerings? This must be our 

task 
In Heaven, this our delight. How weari- 
some 
Eternity so spent in worship paid 
To whom we hate! Let us not then pur- 
sue, 
By force impossible, by leave obtained 250 
Unacceptable, though in Heaven, our state 
Of splen'lid vassalage; but rather seek ■ 
Our own good from ourselves, and from 

our own 
Live to ourselves, though in this vast 

recess. 
Free, and to none accountable, preferring 
Hard liberty before the easy yoke 256 

Of ser\'ile pomp. Our greatness will ap- 
pear 
Then most conspicuous, when great things 

of small, 
Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse, 



We can create, and in what place soe'er 260 
Thrive under evil, and work ease out of 

pain 
Through labor and endurance. This deep 

world 
Of darkness do we dread? How oft amidst 
Thick clouds and dark doth Heaven's all- 
ruling Sire 
Choose to reside, his glory unobscured, 265 
And with the majesty of darkness round 
Covers his throne, from whence deep 

thunders roar, 
Mustering their rage, and Heaven resem- 
bles Hell! 
As he our darkness, cannot we his light 
Imitate when we please? This desert soil 
Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and 
gold; _ 271 

Nor want we skill or art from whence to 

raise 
Magnificence; and what can Heaven show 

more? 
Our torments also may, in length of time. 
Become our elements, these piercing fires 
As soft as now severe, our temper changed 
Into their temper; which must needs re- 
move 277 
The sensible^ of pain. All things invite 
To peaceful counsels, and the settled state 
Of order, how in safety best we may 280 
Compose our present evils, with regard 
Of what we are and where, dismissing quite 
All thoughts of war. Ye have what I ad- 
vise." 
He scarce had finished, when such mur- 
mur filled 
The assembly, as when hollow rocks re- 
tain 285 
The sound of blustering winds, which all 

night long 
Had roused the sea, now with hoarse ca- 
dence lull 
Seafaring men o'erwatched, whose bark by 

chance, 
Or pinnace, anchors in a craggy bay 
After the tempest: such applause was 
heard 290 

As Mammon ended, and his sentence 

pleased. 
Advising peace; for such another field 
They dreaded worse than Hell; so much 

the fear 
Of thunder and the sword of Michael 



170 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Wrought still within them; and no less 

desire 295 

To found this nether empire, which might 

rise, 
By policy, and long process of time, 
In emulation opposite to Heaven. 
Which when Beelzebub f)erceived — than 

whom, 
Satan except, none higher sat — with grave 
Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed 301 
A pillar of state. Deep on his front en- 
graven 
DeHberation sat and pubHc care; 
And princely counsel in his face yet shone, 
Majestic, though in ruin. Sage he stood. 
With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear 306 
The weight of mightiest monarchies; his 

look 
Drew audience and attention still as night 
Or summer's noontide air, while thus he 
spake: — 
"Thrones and Imperial Powers, Off- 
spring of Heaven, 310 
Ethereal Virtues! or these titles now 
Must we renounce, and, changing style, 

be called 
Princes of Hell? for so the popular vote 
Inclines — here to continue, and build up 

here 
A growing empire; doubtless! while we 
dream, 315 

And know not that the King of Heaven 

hath doomed 
This place our dungeon — not our safe re- 
treat 
Beyond his potent arm, to live exempt 
From Heaven's high jurisdiction, in new 

league 
Banded against his throne, but to re- 
main 
In strictest bondage, though thus far re- 
moved, 321 
Under the inevitable curb, reserved 
His captive multitude. For he, be sure, 
In highth or depth, still first and last will 

reign 
Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no 
part 325 

By our revolt, but over Hell extend 
His empire, and with iron sceptre rule 
Us here, as with his golden those in 

Heaven. 
What sit we then projecting peace and 
war? 



War hath determined us,^ and foiled with 

loss 330 

Irreparable; terms of peace yet none 
Vouchsafed or sought; for what peace will 

be given 
To us enslaved, but custody severe, 
And stripes, and arbitrary punishment 
Inflicted? and what peace can we return. 
But, to our power, hostility and hate, 336 
Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though 

slow. 
Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least 
May reap his conquest, and may least re- 
joice 
In doing what we most in suffering feel? 340 
Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need 
With dangerous expedition to invade 
Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault 

or siege. 
Or ambush from the Deep. What if we 

find ^ _ 344 

Some easier enterprise? There is a place 
(If ancient and prophetic fame in Heaven 
Err not), another World, the happy seat 
Of some new race called Man, about this 

time 
To be created like to us, though less 349 
In power and excellence, but favored more 
Of him who rules above; so was his will 
Pronounced among the gods, and, by an 

oath 
That shook Heaven's whole circumference, 

confirmed. 
Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to 

learn 
What creatures there inhabit, of what 

mould 355 

Or substance, how endued, and what their 

power. 
And where their weakness : how attempted 

best. 
By force or subtlety. Though Heaven be 

shut, 
And Heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure 
In his own strength, this place may lie ex- 
posed, 360 
The utmost border of his kingdom, left 
To their defence who hold it; here, perhaps, 
Some advantageous act may be achieved 
By sudden onset — either with Hell-fire 
To waste his whole creation, or possess 365 
All as our own, and drive, as we were 

driven, 

' made an end of. 



MILTON 



171 



The puny habitants; or if not drive, 
Seduce them to our party, that their God 
May prove their foe, and with repenting 

hand 
Abolish his own works. This would sur- 
pass 370 
Common revenge, and interrupt his joy 
In our confusion, and our joy upraise 
In his disturbance; when his darling sons. 
Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall 

curse 
Their frail original, and faded bUss — 375 
Faded so soon ! Advise if this be worth 
Attempting, or to sit in darkness here 
Hatching vain empires." Thus Beelzebub 
Pleaded his devilish counsel, first devised 
By Satan, and in part proposed; for 

whence, 380 

But from the author of all ill, could spring 
So deep a malice, to confound the race 
Of mankind in one root, and Earth with 

Hell 
To mingle and involve, done all to spite 
The great Creator? But their spite still 

serves 385 

His glory to augment. The bold design 
Pleased highly those Infernal States, and 

joy 
Sparkled in all their eyes: with full assent 
They vote: whereat his speech he thus 

renews : — 
"Well have ye judged, well ended long 

debate, 390 

Synod of gods! and, like to what ye are. 
Great things resolved; which from the 

lowest deep 
Will once more lift us up, in spite of fate. 
Nearer our ancient seat — perhaps in view 
Of those bright confines, whence, with 

neighboring arms 395 

And opportune excursion, we may chance 
Re-enter Heaven; or else in some mild 

zone 
Dwell, net unvisited of Heaven's fair light, 
Secure, and at the brightening orient beam 
Purge off this gloom: the soft delicious air. 
To heal the scar of these corrosive fires, 401 
Shall breathe her balm. But first, whom 

shall we send 
In search of this new world? whom shall 

we find 
Sufficient? who shall tempt with wander- 
ing feet 
The dark, unbottomed, infinite Abyss, 405 



And through the palpable obscure find out 
His uncouth way, or spread his aery flight, 
Upborne with indefatigable wings 
Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive 
The happy isle? What strength, what art, 

can then 410 

Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe 
Through the strict senteries and stations 

thick 
Of Angels watching round? Here he had 

need 
All circumspection: and we now no less 
Choice in our suffrage; for on whom we 

send, 415 

The weight of all, and our last hope, relies." 
This said, he sat; and expectation held 
His look suspense, awaiting who appeared 
To second, or oppose, or undertake 
The perilous attempt. But all sat mute, 
Pondering the danger with deep thoughts; 

and each 421 

In other's countenance read his own dis- 
may. 
Astonished. None among the choice and 

prime 
Of those Heaven-warring champions could 

be found 
So hardy as to proffer or accept, 425 

Alone, the dreadful voyage; till at last 
Satan, whom now transcendent glory 

raised 
Above his fellows, with monarchal pride 
Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus 

spake : — 
"O Progeny of Heaven! Empyreal 

Thrones! 430 

With reason hath deep silence and demur 
Seized us, though undismayed. Long is 

the way 
And hard, that out of Hell leads up to 

Light. 
Our prison strong, this huge convex of fire. 
Outrageous to devour, immures us round 
Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant, 
Barred over us, prohibit all egress. 437 
These passed, if any pass, the void pro- 
found 
Of unessential^ Night receives him next, 
Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being 
Threatens him, plunged in that abortive 

gulf. _ 441 

If thence he scape into whatever world 
Or unknown region, what remains him less 

' devoid of being, or essence. 



172 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Than unknown dangers and as hard es- 
cape? 
But I should ill become this throne, O 

Peers, 445 

And this imperial sovranty, adorned 
With splendor, armed with power, if 

aught proposed 
And judged of public moment, in the shape 
Of difficulty or danger, could deter 
Me from attempting. Wherefore do I 

assume ' 45° 

These royalties, and not refuse to reign, 
Refusing to accept as great a share 
Of hazard as of honor, due alike 
To him who reigns, and so much to him 

due 
Of hazard more, as he above the rest 455 
High honored sits? Go therefore, mighty 

Powers, 
Terror of Heaven, though fallen; intend at 

home. 
While here shall be our home, what best 

may ease 
The present misery, and render Hell 
More tolerable; if there be cure or charm 
To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain 461 
Of this ill mansion; intermit no watch 
j'\gainst a wakeful foe, while I abroad 
Through all the coasts of dark destruction 

seek 
Deliverance for us all. This enterprise 465 
None shall partake with me." Thus say- 
ing, rose 
The Monarch, and prevented all reply; 
Prudent, lest, from his resolution raised,^ 
Others among the chief might ofifer now. 
Certain to be refused, what erst they 

feared, 470 

And, so refused, might in opinion stand 
His rivals, winning cheap the high repute 
Which he through hazard huge must earn. 

But they 
Dreaded not more the adventure than his 

voice 
Forbidding; and at once with him they 

rose. 475 

Their rising all at once was as the sound 
Of thunder heard remote. Towards him 

they bend 
With awful reverence prone, and as a god 
Extol him equal to the Highest in Heaven. 
Nor failed they to express how^ much they 

praised 480 

' encouraged by his resolution. 



That for the general safety he despised 
His own ; for neither do the Spirits damned 
Lose all their virtue, — lest bad men should 

boast 
Their specious deeds on Earth, which glory 

excites, 
Or close ambition varnished o'er with zeal. 
Thus they their doubtful consultations 

dark 486 

Ended, rejoicing in their matchless Chief: 
As when from mountain-tops the dusky 

clouds 
Ascending, while the North-wind sleeps, 

o'erspread 
Heaven's cheerful face, the louring ele- 
ment 490 
Scowls o'er the darkened landskip snow or 

shower, 
If chance the radiant sun with farewell 

sweet 
Extend his evening beam, the fields revive, 
The birds their notes renew, and bleating 

herds 494 

Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings. 
O shame to men ! Devil with devil damned 
Firm concord holds; men only disagree 
Of creatures rational, though under hope 
Of heavenly grace; and, God proclaiming 

peace. 
Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife 500 
Among themselves, and levy cruel wars. 
Wasting the earth, each other to destroy: 
As if (which might induce us to accord) 
Man had not hellish foes enow besides. 
That day and night for his destruction 

wait! 505 

The Stygian council thus dissolved; and 

forth 
In order came the grand Infernal Peers: 
Midst came their mighty Paramount, and 

seemed 
Alone the antagonist of Heaven, nor less 
Than Hell's dread Emperor, with pomp 

supreme, 510 

And god-like imitated state; him round 
A globe of fiery Seraphim enclosed 
With bright emblazonry and horrent- 
arms. 
Then of their session ended they bid cry 
With trumpet's regal sound the great 

result: 515 

Toward the four winds four speedy 

Cherubim 

- bristling. 



MILTON 



173 



Put to their mouths the sounding alchymy/ 
By harald's voice explained; the hollow 

Abyss 
Heard far and wide, and all the host of Hell 
With deafening shout returned them loud 

acclaim. 520 

Thence more at ease their minds, and 

somewhat raised 
By false presumptuous hope, the ranged 

Powers 
Disband; and, wandering, each his several 

way 
Pursues, as inclination or sad choice 
Leads him perplexed, where he may like- 
liest find 525 
Truce to his restless thoughts, and enter- 
tain 
The irksome hours, till his great Chief 

return. 
Part on the plain, or in the air sublime,^ 
Upon the wing or in swift race contend. 
As at the Olympian games or Pythian 

fields; _ • 530 

Part curb their fiery steeds, or shun the 

goal 
With rapid wheels, or fronted brigads 

form: 
As when, to warn proud cities, war appears 
Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush 
To battle in the clouds; before each van 
Prick forth the aery knights, and couch 

their spears, 536 

Till thickest legions close; with feats of 

arms 
From either end of Heaven the welkin 

burns. 
Others, with vast Typhoean rage, more 

fell. 
Rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the 

air _ 540 

In whirlwind; Hell scarce holds the wild 

uproar : 
As when Alcides, from (Echalia crowned 
With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, 

and tore 
Through pain up by the roots Thessalian 

pines. 
And Lichas from the top of (Eta threw 545 
Into the Euboic sea. Others, more mild. 
Retreated in a silent valley, sing 
With notes angelical to many a harp 
Their own heroic deeds, and hapless fall 
By doom of battle, and complain that Fate 

'trumpet. 'raised. 



Free Virtue should enthrall to Force or 

Chance. 551 

Their song was partial, but the harmony 
(What could it less when Spirits immortal 

sing?) 
Suspended Hell, and took with ravish- 
ment 
The thronging audience. In discourse 

more sweet 555 

(For eloquence the soul, song charms the 

sense) 
Others apart sat on a hill retired. 
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned 

high 
Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and 

fate. 
Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge ab- 
solute, 560 
And found no end, in wandering mazes 

lost. 
Of good and evil much they argued then, 
Of happiness and final misery. 
Passion and apathy, and glory and shame: 
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy! — 
Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm 
Pain for a while or anguish, and excite 567 
Fallacious hope, or arm the obdured'^ 

breast 
With stubborn patience as with triple steel. 
Another part, in squadrons and gross 

bands, 570 

On bold adventure to discover wide 
That dismal world, if any clime perhaps 
Might yield them easier habitation, bend 
Four ways their flying march, along the 

banks 
Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge 575 
Into the burning lake their baleful streams: 
Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate; 
Sad Acheron, of sorrow, black and deep; 
Cocytus, named of lamentation loud 
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce 

Phlegeton, 580 

Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with 

rage. 
Far off from these a slow and silent stream, 
Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls 
Her watery labyrinth, w^hereof who drinks 
Forthwith his former state and being 

forgets, 585 

Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and 

pain. 
Beyond this flood a frozen continent 

'obdurate. 



174 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Lies dark and wild, beat with perpetual 

storms 
Of whirlwind and dire hail, which on firm 

land 
Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin 

seems 590 

Of ancient pile; all else deep snow and ice, 
A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog 
Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old, 
Where armies whole have sunk : the parch- 
ing air 
Burns frore,^ and cold performs the effect 

of fire. _ 595 

Thither, by harpy-footed Furies haled, 
At certain revolutions all the damned 
Are brought; and feel by turns the bitter 

change 
Of fierce extremes, extremes by change 

more fierce, 
From beds of raging fire to starve- in ice 
Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to 

pine 601 

Immovable, infixed, and frozen round 
Periods of time, — thence hurried back to 

fire. 
They ferry over this Lethean sound 
Both to and fro, their sorrow to augment, 
And wish and struggle, as they pass, to 

reach 606 

The tempting stream, with one small drop 

to lose 
In sweet forgetfulness all pain and woe. 
All in one moment, and so near the brink; 
But Fate withstands, and, to oppose the 

attempt 610 

Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards 
The ford, and of itself the water flies 
All taste of living wight, as once it fled 
The lip of Tantalus. Thus roving on 
In confused march forlorn, the adventur- 
ous bands, 615 
With shuddering horror pale, and eyes 

aghast. 
Viewed first their lamentable lot, and 

found 
No rest. Through many a dark and dreary 

vale 
They passed, and many a region dolorous, 
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, 620 
Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and 

shades of death — 
A universe of death, which God by curse 
Created evil, for evil only good; 

'frozen. ? extinguish. 



Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature 

breeds. 
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious 

things, 625 

Abominable, inutterable, and worse 
Than fables yet have feigned, or fear con- 
ceived, 
Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimaeras 

dire. 
Meanwhile the Adversary of God and 

Man, 
Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest 

design, 630 

Puts on swift wings, and toward the gates 

of Hell 
Explores his solitary flight: sometimes 
He scours the right hand coast, sometimes 

the left; 
Now shaves with level wing the deep, then 

soars 
Up to the fiery concave towering high. 635 
As when far off at sea a fleet descried 
Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds 
Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles 
Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants 

bring 
Their spicy drugs; they on the trading 

flood, 640 

Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape, 
Ply stemming nightly toward the pole: so 

seemed 
Far off the flying Fiend. At last appear 
HeU-bounds, high reaching to the horrid 

roof. 
And thrice threefold the gates; three folds 

were brass, 645 

Three iron, three of adamantine rock 
Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire. 
Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there 

sat 
On either side a formidable Shape. 
The one seemed woman to the waist, and 

fair, 650 

But ended foul in many a scaly fold, 
Voluminous and vast — a serpent armed 
With mortal sting. About her middle 

round 
A cry of Hell-hounds never-ceasing barked 
With wide Cerberean mouths fuU loud, 

and rung ^ 655 

A hideous peal ; yet, when they list, would 

creep. 
If aught disturbed their noise, into her 

womb, 



MILTON 



175 



And kennel there; yet there still barked 

and howled 
Within unseen. Far less abhorred than 

these 659 

Vexed Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts 
Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore ; 
Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when, 

called 
In secret, riding through the air she 

comes. 
Lured with the smell of infant blood, to 

dance 
With Lapland witches, while the laboring 

moon 665 

Eclipses at their charms. The other 

Shape — 
If shape it might be called that shape had 

none 
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; 
Or substance might be called that shadow 

seemed. 
For each seemed either — black it stood as 

Night, 670 

Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, 
And shook a dreadful dart; what seemed 

his head 
The Ukeness of a kingly crown had on. 
Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
The monster moving onward came as fast. 
With horrid strides; Hell trembled as he 

strode. 676 

The undaunted Fiend w^hat this might be 

admired^ — 
Admired, not feared — God and his Son 

except. 
Created thing naught valued he nor 

shunned — 
And with disdainful look thus first began : 
"Whence and what art thou, execrable 

Shape, 681 

That dar'st, though grim and terrible, 

advance 
Thy miscreated front athwart my way 
To yonder gates? Through them I mean 

to pass, 
That be assured, without leave asked of 

thee. 685 

Retire; or taste thy folly, and learn by 

proof. 
Hell-born, not to contend with Spirits of 

Heaven." 
To whom the Goblin, full of wrath, re- 
plied : — 

' wondered. 



"Art thou that Traitor- Angel, art thou he 
Who first broke peace in Heaven and faith, 

till then 690 

Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms 
Drew after him the third part of Heaven's 

sons, 
Conjured against the Highest, for which 

both thou 
And they, outcast from God, are here con- 
demned 
To waste eternal days in woe and pain? 695 
And recon'st thou thyself with Spirits of 

Heaven, 
Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here 

and scorn. 
Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee 

more. 
Thy king and lord? Back to thy punish- 
ment. 
False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings. 
Lest \vith a whip of scorpions I pursue 701 
Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this 

dart 
Strange horror seize thee, and pangs un- 

felt before." 
So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape. 
So speaking and so threatening, grew ten- 
fold 70s 
More dreadful and deform. On the other 

side. 
Incensed with indignation, Satan stood 
Unterrified, and Hke a comet burned. 
That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge 
In the arctic sky, and from his horrid 

hair 710 

Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the 

head 
Levelled his deadly aim; their fatal hands 
No second stroke intend; and such a frown 
Each cast at the other as when two black 

clouds. 
With Heaven's artillery fraught, come 

rattling on 715 

Over the Caspian — then stand front to 

front 
Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow 
To join their dark encounter in mid-air. 
So frowned the mighty combatants that 

Hell 
Grew darker at their frown; so matched 

they stood; 72 o 

For never but once more was either like 
To meet so great a foe. And now great 

deeds 



176 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Had been achieved, whereof all Hell had 

rung, 
Had not the snaky Sorceress that sat 724 
Fast by Hell-gate and kept the fatal key, 
Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed be- 
tween. 
"O father, what intends thy hand," she 

cried, 
"Against thy only son? What fury, O son. 
Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart 
Against thy father's head? and know'st for 

whom? 730 

For him who sits above, and laughs the 

while 
At thee, ordained his drudge to execute 
Whate'er his wrath, which he calls justice, 

bids — 
His wrath, which one day will destroy ye 

both!" 
She spake, and at her words the hellish 

Pest 735 

Forbore: then these to her Satan returned: 

"So strange thy outcry, and thy words 

so strange 
Thou interposest, that my sudden hand, 
Prevented, spares to tell thee yet by deeds 
What it intends, till first I know of thee 740 
What thing thou art, thus double-formed, 

and why. 
In this infernal vale first met, thou call'st 
Me father, and that phantasm call'st my 

son. 
I know thee not, nor ever saw till now 
Sight more detestable than him and thee." 
To whom thus the Portress of Hell-gate 

replied : — 746 

"Hast thou forgot me, then, and do I seem 
Now in thine eye so foul? once deemed so 

fair 
In Heaven, when at the assembly, and in 

sight 
Of all the Seraphim with thee combined 750 
In bold conspiracy against Heaven's King, 
All on a sudden miserable pain 
Surprised thee; dim thine eyes, and dizzy 

swum 
In darkness, while thy head flames thick 

and fast 
Threw forth, till on the left side opening 

wide, 755 

Likest to thee in shape and countenance 

bright. 
Then shining heavenly fair, a goddess 

armed. 



Out of thy head I sprung. Amazement 

seized 
All the host of Heaven : back they recoiled 

afraid 759 

At first, and called me Sin, and for a sign 
Portentous held me; but, familiar grown, 
I pleased, and with attractive graces won 
The most averse ; thee chiefly, who full oft 
Thyself in me thy perfect image viewing 
Becam'st enamored; and such joy thou 

took'st 765 

With me in secret, that my womb con- 
ceived 
A growing burden. Meanwhile war arose, 
And fields were fought in Heaven; wherein 

remained 
(For what could else?) to our Almighty 

Foe 
Clear victory; to our part loss and rout 770 
Through all the Empyrean. Down they 

fell, 
Driven headlong from the pitch of Heaven, 

down 
Into this deep; and in the general fall 
I also : at which time this powerful key 
Into my hands was given, with charge to 

keep _ 775 

These gates forever shut, which none can 

pass 
Without my opening. Pensive here I sat 
Alone; but long I sat not, till my womb. 
Pregnant by thee, and now excessive 

grown. 
Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes. 
At last this odious offspring whom thou 

seest, 781 

Thine own begotten, breaking violent w^ay, 
Tore through my entrails, that, with fear, 

and pain 
Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew 
Transformed; but he, my inbred enemy, 
Forth issued, brandishing his fatal dart, 
Made to destroy. I fled, and cried out 

Death! 787 

Hell trembled at the hideous name, and 

sighed 
From all her caves, and back resounded 

Death! 
1 fled; but he pursued (though more, it 

seems, 790 

Inflamed with lust than rage) and, swifter 

far. 
Me overtook, his mother, all dismayed. 
And, in embraces forcible and foul 



MILTON 



177 



Engendering with me, of that rape begot 
These yeUing monsters, that with ceaseless 
cry 795 

Surround me, as thou saw'st, hourly con- 
ceived 
And hourly born, with sorrow infinite 
To me: for, when they list, into the womb 
That bred them they return, and howl, 

and gnaw 
My bowels, their repast; then, bursting 
forth 800 

Afresh, with conscious terrors vex me 

round, 
That rest or intermission none I find. 
Before mine eyes in opposition sits 
Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets 

them on. 
And me, his parent, would full soon devour 
For want of other prey, but that he knows 
His end with mine involved, and knows 
that I 807 

Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane, 
Whenever that shall be: so Fate pro- 
nounced. 
But thou, father, I forewarn thee, shun 
His deadly arrow; neither vainly hope 811 
To be invulnerable in those bright arms. 
Though tempered heavenly; for that mor- 
tal dint. 
Save he who reigns above, none can re- 
sist." 
She fiinished; and the subtle Fiend his 
lore 815 

Soon learned, now milder, and thus an- 
swered smooth: — 
"Dear daughter — -since thou claim'st me 
for thy sire. 
And my fair son here show'st me, the dear 

pledge 
Of dalliance had with thee in Heaven, and 

joys 
Then sweet, now sad to mention, through 
dire change 820 

Befallen us unforeseen, unthought of — 

know, 
I come no enemy, but to set free 
From out this dark and dismal house of 

pain 
Both him and thee, and all the Heavenly 

host 
Of Spirits that, in our just pretences 
armed, 825 

Fell \\'ith us from on high. From them I go 
This uncouth errand sole, and one for all 



Myself expose, with lonely steps to tread 
The unfounded Deep, and through the 

void immense 
To search with wandering quest a place 
foretold 830 

Should be — and by concurring signs, ere 

now 
Created vast and round — a place of bliss 
In the purlieus of Heaven; and therein 

placed 
A race of upstart creatures, to supply 
Perhaps our vacant room, though more 
removed, 835 

Lest Heaven, surcharged with potent mul- 
titude. 
Might hap to move new broils. Be this, 

or aught 
Than this more secret, now designed, I 

haste 
To know; and, this once known, shall soon 

return. 
And bring ye to the place where thou and 
Death 840 

Shall dwell at ease, and up and down un- 
seen 
Wing silently the buxom^ air, embalmed 
With odors: there ye shall be fed and filled 
Immeasurably; all things shall be your 
prey." 
He ceased; for both seemed highly 
pleased, and Death 845 

Grinned horrible a ghastly smile, to hear 
His famine should be filled, and blessed his 

maw 
Destined to that good hour. No less re- 
joiced 
His mother bad, and thus bespake her 
sire: — 
"The key of this infernal pit, by due 850 
And by command of Heaven's all-powerful 

King, 
I keep, by him forbidden to unlock 
These adamantine gates; against all force 
Death ready stands to interpose his dart, 
Fearless to be o'ermatched by Hving 
might. 855 

But what owe I to his commands above. 
Who hates me, and hath hither thrust me 

down 
Into this gloom of Tartarus profound. 
To sit in hateful office here confined, 
Inhabitant of Heaven and Heavenly- 
born, — 860 

' yielding, obedient. 



178 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Here in perpetual agony and pain, 

With terrors and with clamors compassed 

round 
Of mine own brood, that on my bowels 

feed? 
Thou art my father, thou my author, thou 
My being gav'st me; whom should I obey 
But thee? whom follow? Thou wilt bring 

me soon 866 

To that new world of light and bliss, among 
The gods who live at ease, where I shall 

reign 
At thy right hand voluptuous, as beseems 
Thy daughter and thy darling, without 

end." 870 

Thus saying, from her side the fatal key. 
Sad instrument of all our woe, she took; 
And, towards the gate rolling her bestial 

train, 
Forthwith the huge portcullis high up- 

drew. 
Which but herself not all the Stygian 

Powers 8/5 

Could once have moved; then in the key- 
hole turns 
The intricate wards, and every bolt and 

bar 
Of massy iron or solid rock with ease 
Unfastens. On a sudden open fly. 
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, 
The infernal doors, and on their hinges 

grate 881 

Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom 

shook 
Of Erebus. She opened ; but to shut 
Excelled her power: the gates wide open 

stood, 
That with extended wings a bannered 

host, 88s 

Under spread ensigns marching, might 

pass through 
With horse and chariots ranked in loose 

array; 
So wide they stood, and like a furnace- 
mouth 
Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy 

flame. 
Before their eyes in sudden view appear 
The secrets of the hoary Deep, a dark 891 
inimitable ocean, without bound, 
Without dimension ; where length, breadth, 

and highth, 
And time, and place, are lost; where eldest 

Night 



And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold 895 
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise 
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand. 
For Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry, four 

champions fierce. 
Strive here for mastery, and to battle bring 
Their embryon atoms; they around the 

flag 900 

Of each his faction, in their several clans, 
Light-armed or heavy, sharp, smooth, 

swift, or slow. 
Swarm populous, unnumbered as the sands 
Of Barca or Cyrene's torrid soil. 
Levied to side with warring winds, and 

poise 90s 

Their lighter wings. To whom these most 

adhere. 
He rules a moment; Chaos umpire sits. 
And by decision more embroils the fray 
By which he reigns; next him, high arbiter. 
Chance governs all. Into this wild Abyss, 
The womb of Nature, and perhaps her 

grave, 911 

Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire, 
But all these in their pregnant causes 

mixed , 
Confusedly, and which thus must ever 

fight, _ 914 

Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain 
His dark materials to create more worlds — 
Into this wild Abyss the wary Fiend 
Stood on the brink of Hell and looked 

awhile. 
Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith 
He had to cross. Nor was his ear less 

pealed 920 

With noises loud and ruinous (to compare 
Great things with small) than when Bel- 

lona storms 
With all her battering ^ engines, bent to 

rase 
Some capital city; or less than if this frame 
Of Heaven were falling, and these elements 
In mutiny had from her axle torn 926 

The steadfast Earth. At last his sail- 
broad vans 
He spreads for flight, and, in the surging 

smoke 
Uplifted, spurns the ground; thence many 

a league. 
As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides 930 
Audacious; but, that seat soon failing, 

meets 
A vast vacuity. All unawares, 



MILTON 



179 



Fluttering his pennons vain, plumb-down 

he drops 
Ten thousand fathom deep, and to this 

hour 
Down had been faUing, had not, by ill 

chance, 935 

The strong rebuff of some tumultuous 

cloud. 
Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him 
As many miles aloft. That fury stayed — 
Quenched in a boggy Syrtis,^ neither 

sea 
Nor good dry land— nigh foundered, on 

he fares, 940 

Treading the crude consistence, half on 

foot. 
Half flying; behoves him now both oar 

and sail. 
As when a gryphon through the wilderness 
With winged course, o'er hill or moory 

dale. 
Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth 945 
Had from his wakeful custody purloined 
The guarded gold: so eagerly the Fiend 
O'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, 

dense, or rare. 
With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues 

his way, 
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, 

or flies. 950 

At length a universal hubbub wild 
Of stunning sounds and voices all confused, 
Borne through the hollow dark, assaults 

his ear 
With loudest vehemence. Thither he plies 
Undaunted, to meet there whatever 

Power 955 

Or Spirit of the nethermost Abyss 
Might in that noise reside, of whom to 

ask 
Which way the nearest coast of darkness 

lies 
Bordering on light; when straight behold 

the throne 
Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread 960 
Wide on the wasteful Deep! With him 

enthroned 
Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things, 
The consort of his reign ; and by them stood 
Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name 
Of Demogorgon; Rumor next, and Chance, 
.\nd Tumult, and Confusion, all em- 
broiled, 966 

I quicksand. 



And Discord with a thousand various 
mouths. 
To whom Satan, turning boldly, thus: — 
"Ye Powers 
And Spirits of this nethermost Abyss, 
Chaos and ancient Night, I come no spy, 
With purpose to explore or to disturb 971 
The secrets of your realm; but, by con- 
straint 
Wandering this darksome desert, as my 

way 
Lies through your spacious empire up to 

light. 
Alone and without guide, half lost, I seek 
What readiest path leads where your 
gloomy bounds 976 

Confine^ with Heaven; or if some other 

place. 
From your dominion won, the Ethereal 

King 
Possesses lately, thither to arrive 
I travel this profound. Direct my course: 
Directed, no mean recompense it brings 
To your behoof, if I that region lost, 982 
All usurpation thence expelled, reduce 
To her original darkness and your sway 
(Which is my present journey), and once 
more 985 

Erect the standard there of ancient Night. 
Yours be the advantage all, mine the re- 
venge!" 
Thus Satan; and him thus the Anarch 
old. 
With faltering speech and visage incom- 

posed, 
Answered: — "I know thee, stranger, who 
thou art: 990 

That mighty leading Angel, who of late 
Made head against Heaven's King, though 

overthrown. 
I saw and heard ; for such a numerous host 
Fled not in silence through the frighted 

Deep, 
With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, 995 

Confusion worse confounded; and Heaven- 
gates 
Poured out by millions her victorious 

bands. 
Pursuing. I upon my frontiers here 
Keep residence; if all I can will serve 
That little which is left so to defend, 1000 
Encroached on still through our intestine 
broils, 

2 arc contiguous to. 



I So 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



Weakening the sceptre of old Night : first, 

Hell, 
Your dungeon, stretching far and wide 

beneath; 
Now lately Heaven and Earth, another 

world 
Himg o'er my realm, Unked in a golden 

chain 1005 

To that side Heaven from whence your 

legions fell! 
If that way be your walk, you have not 

far; 
So much the nearer danger. Go, and 

speed ! 
Havoc, and spoil, and ruin, are my gain." 
He ceased; and Satan stayed not to 

reply, loio 

But, glad that now his sea should find a 

shore. 
With fresh alacrity and force renewed 
Springs upward, like a p3Tamid of fire, 
Into the wild expanse, and through the 

shock 
Of fighting elements, on all sides round 
En\ironed, wins his way; harder beset 1016 
And more endangered, than when Argo 

passed 
Through Bosporus betwixt the justling 

rocks ; 
Or when Ulysses on the larboard shunned 
Charybdis, and by the other whirlpool 

steered: 1020 

So he with difi&culty and labor hard 
.Moved on. With difiiculty and labor he; 
But, he once passed, soon after, when Man 

fell. 
Strange alteration! Sin and Death amain 
Following his track (such was the will of 

Heaven) 1025 

Paved after him a broad and beaten way 
Over the dark Abyss, whose boiling gulf 
Tamely endured a bridge of wondrous 

length. 
From Hell continued, reaching the utmost 

orb 
Of this frail World; by which the Spirits 

perverse 1030 

With easy intercourse pass to and fro 
To tempt or punish mortals, except whom 
God and good Angels guard by special 

grace. 
But now at last the sacred influence 
Of light appears, and from the walls of 

Heaven 1035 



Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night 
A glimmering dawn. Here Nature first 

begins 
Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire, 
As from her outmost works, a broken foe, 
With tumult less and with less hostile 
dm; 1040 

That Satan with less toil, and now with 

ease. 
Wafts on the calmer wave by dubious 

hght, 
And, like a weather-beaten vessel, holds 
Gladly the port, though shrouds and tackle 
torn; 1044 

Or in the emptier waste, resembling air, 
Weighs his spread wings, at leisure to be- 
hold 
Far off the empyreal Heaven, extended 

wide 
In circuit, undetermined square or round. 
With opal towers, and battlements 
adorned 1049 

Of living sapphire, once his native seat; 
And fast by, hanging in a golden chain. 
This pendent World, in bigness as a star 
Of smallest magnitude close by the moon. 
Thither, full fraught with mischievous re- 
venge. 
Accurst, and in a cursed hour, be hies. 1055 

From BOOK XII 

THE EXPULSION FROM PARADISE 

He ended, and they both descend the 

hill. 604 

Descended, Adam to the bower where Eve 

Lay sleeping ran before, but found her 

waked ; 
And thus with words not sad she him re- 
ceived : — 
"Whence thou return'st and whither 
went'st I know; 610 

For God is also in sleep, and dreams advise, 
Which he hath sent propitious, some great 

good 
Presaging, since, with sorrow and heart's 

distress 
Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on; 
In me is no delay; with thee to go 615 
Is to stay here; without thee here to stay 
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me 
Art all things under Heaven, all places 
thou, 



MILTON 



i8i 



Who for my wilful crime art banished 

hence. 
This further consolation yet secure 620 
I carry hence: though all by me is lost, 
Such favor I unworthy am voutsafed, 
By me the Promised Seed shall all restore." 
So spake our mother Eve; and Adam 

heard 
Well pleased, but answered not; for now 

too nigh 625 

The Archangel stood, and from the other 

hUl 
To their fixed station, all in bright array, 
The Cherubim descended, on the ground 
Gliding meteorous, as evening mist 
Risen from a river o'er the marish glides. 
And gathers ground fast at the laborer's 

heel 631 

Homeward returning. High in front ad- 
vanced, 
The brandished sword of God before them 

blazed. 
Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat. 
And vapor as the Libyan air adust, ^ 635 
Began to parch that temperate clime; 

whereat 
In either hand the hastening Angel caught 
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern 

gate 
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
To the subjected plain — then disappeared. 
They, looking back, all the eastern side 

beheld 641 

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat. 
Waved over by that flaming brand; the 

gate 
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery 

arms. 
Some natural tears they dropped, but 

wiped them soon; 645 

The world was all before them, where to 

choose 
Their place of rest, and Providence their 

guide. 
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps 

and slow, 
Through Eden took their solitary way. 

From AREOPAGITICA 

I deny not, but that it is of greatest 
concernment in the Church and Common- 
wealth, to have a \-igilant eye how books 

' scorched. 



demean themselves as well as men; and 
thereafter to confine, imprison, and do 
sharpest justice on them as malefactors. 
For books are not absolutely dead things, 
but do contain a potency of life in them 
to be as active as that soul was whose 
progeny they are; nay, they do pre- [10 
serve as in a vial the purest efficacy and 
extraction of that living intellect that 
bred them. I know they are as lively, 
and as vigorously productive, as those 
fabulous dragon's teeth; and being sown 
up and down, may chance to spring up 
armed men. And yet on the other hand, 
unless wariness be used, as good almost 
kill a man as kill a good book: who kills a 
man kills a reasonable creature, God's [20 
image; but he who destroys a good book, 
kills reason itself, kills the image of God, 
as it were in the eye. Many a man lives 
a burden to the earth; but a good book is 
the precious lifeblood of a master spirit, 
embalmed and treasured up on purpose 
to a life beyond Ufe. 'Tis true, no age 
can restore a life, whereof perhaps there 
is no great loss; and revolutions of ages 
do not oft recover the loss of a rejected [30 
truth, for the want of which whole na- 
tions fare the worse. We should be wary 
therefore what persecution we raise against 
the living labors of public men, how we 
spill that seasoned life of man, preserved 
and stored up in books; since we see a 
kind of homicide may be thus committed, 
sometimes a martyrdom, and if it extend 
to the whole impression, a kind of mas- 
sacre, whereof the execution ends not [40 
in the slaying of an elemental life, but 
strikes at that ethereal and fifth essence 
the breath of reason itself; slays an im- 
mortality rather than a Hfe. ... But 
some wUl say, "What though the in- 
ventors were bad, the thing for all that 
may be good?" It may so; yet if that 
thing be no such deep invention, but 
obvious, and easy for any man to light 
on, and yet best and wisest common- [50 
wealths through all ages and occasions 
have forborne to use it, and falsest se- 
ducers and oppressors of men were the 
first who took it up, and to no other pur- 
pose but to obstruct and hinder the first 
approach of Reformation. I am of those 
who belie\'e, it will be a harder alchemy 



t82 



PURITAXS AND CAVALIERS 



than Lullius ever knew, to sublimate any 
good use out of such an invention. Yet 
this only is what I request to gain [60 
from this reason, that it may be held a 
dangerous and suspicious fruit, as cer- 
tainly it deserves, for the tree that bore 
it, vmtil I can dissect one by one the prop- 
erties it has. . . . Books are as meats 
and \Tiands are; some of good, some of 
e\dl substance; and yet God in that un- 
apocryphal \dsion, said without exception, 
"Rise, Peter, kill and eat," leaving the 
choice to each man's discretion. [70 
Wholesome meats to a \'itiated stomach 
differ little or nothing from unwholesome; 
and' best books to a naughty mind are not 
unappliable to occasions of e\dl. Bad 
meats will scarce breed good nourish- 
ment in the healthiest concoction; but 
herein the difference is of bad books, that 
they to a discreet and judicious reader 
serve in many respects to discover, to 
confute, to forewarn, and to illus- [80 
trate. Whereof what better witness can 
ye expect I should produce, than one of 
your own now sitting in Parliament, the 
chief of learned men reputed in this land, 
]Mr. Selden; whose volume of natural and 
national laws proves, not only by great 
authorities brought together, but by ex- 
quisite reasons and theorems almost 
mathematically demonstrative, that all 
opinions, 3^ea errors, known, read, [90 
and collated, are of main serxnce and as- 
sistance toward the speedy attainment of 
what is truest. I conceive, therefore, 
that when God did enlarge the universal 
diet of man's body, saving ever the rules 
of temperance, He then also, as before, 
left arbitrary the dieting and repasting 
of our minds; as wherein every mature 
man might have to exercise his own 
leading capacity. How great a ^drtue [100 
is temperance, how much of moment 
through the whole life of man! Yet God 
commits the managing so great a trust, 
without particular law or prescription, 
wholly to the demeanor of every grown 
man. And therefore when He Himself 
tabled the Jews from heaven, that omer, 
which was every man's daily portion of 
manna, is computed to have been more 
than might have well sufficed the [no 
heartiest feeder thrice as manv meals. 



For those actions which enter into a man, 
rather than issue out of him, and there- 
fore defile not. God uses not to captivate 
under a perpetual childhood of prescrip- 
tion, but trusts him with the gift of 
reason to be his own chooser; there were 
but little work left for preaching, if law 
and compulsion should grow so fast 
upon those things which heretofore [120 
were governed only by exhortation. . . . 
Good and evil we know in the field of 
this world grow up together almost in- 
separably; and the knowledge of good is 
so involved and interwoven with the 
knowledge of evil, and in so many cun- 
ning resemblances hardly to be discerned, 
that those confused seeds which were 
imposed on Psyche as an incessant labor 
to cull out and sort asunder, were not [130 
more intermixed. It was from out the 
rind of one apple tasted that the knowl- 
edge of good and e\'il, as two twins cleav- 
ing together, leaped forth into the world. 
And perhaps this is that doom which 
Adam fell into of knowing good and evil, 
that is to say of knowing good by e\il. 
As therefore the state of man now is, 
what wisdom can there be to choose, 
what continence to forbear, without [140 
the knowledge of e\dl? He that can ap- 
prehend and consider \ice with all her 
baits and seeming pleasures, and yet ab- 
stain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer 
that which is truly better, he is the true 
warfaring Christian. I cannot praise a 
fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised 
and unbreathed, that never sallies out and 
sees her adversary, but slinks out of the 
race, where that immortal garland [150 
is to be run for, not without dust and heat. 
Assuredly we bring not innocence into the 
world, we bring impurity much rather; 
that which purifies us is trial, and trial 
is by what is contrary. That virtue 
therefore which is but a youngling in the 
contemplation of e\'il, and knows not the 
utmost that vice promises to her followers, 
and rejects it, is but a blank \-irtue, not 
a pure; her whiteness is but an excre- [160 
mental whiteness; which was the reason 
why our sage and serious poet Spenser, 
whom I dare be known to think a better 
teacher than Scotus or Aquinas, describ- 
ing true temperance under the person of 



MILTON 



183 



Guyon, brings him in with his palmer 
through the cave of Mammon, and the 
bower of earthly bliss, that he might see 
and know, and yet abstain. Since there- 
fore the knowledge and survey of [170 
vice is in this world so necessary to the 
constituting of human virtue, and the 
scanning of error to the confirmation of 
truth, how can we more safely, and with 
less danger scout into the regions of sin 
and falsity than by reading all manner 
of tractates and hearing all manner of 
reason? And this is the benefit which 
may be had of books promiscuously read. 



I lastly proceed from the no good [180 
it can do, to the manifest hurt it causes, 
in being first the greatest discouragement 
and affront that can be offered to learn- 
ing, and to learned men. 

It was the complaint and lamentation 
of prelates, upon every least breath of a 
motion to remove pluralities, and distrib- 
ute more equally Church revenues, that 
then all learning would be for ever dashed 
and discouraged. But as for that [190 
opinion, I never found cause to think that 
the tenth part of learning stood or fell 
with the clergy: nor could I ever but hold 
it for a sordid and unworthy speech of 
any churchman who had a competency 
left him. If therefore ye be loth to dis- 
hearten heartily and discontent, not the 
mercenary crew of false pretenders to 
learning, but the free and ingenuous sort 
of such as evidently were born to [200 
study, and love learning for itself, not for 
lucre, or any other end, but the service of 
God and of truth, and perhaps that last- 
ing fame and perpetuity of praise which 
God and good men have consented shall 
be the reward of those whose published 
labors advance the good of mankind, 
then know, that so far to distrust the 
judgment and the honesty of one who 
hath but a common repute in learn- [210 
ing, and never yet offended, as not to 
count him fit to print his mind without 
a tutor and examiner, lest he should drop 
a schism, or something of corruption, is 
the greatest displeasure and indignity to 
a free and knowing spirit that can be put 
upon him. What advantage is it to be a 



man over it is to be a boy at school, if 
we have only escaped the ferular to come 
under the fescu of an Imprimatur? if [220 
serious and elaborate writings, as ,if they 
were no more than the theme of a gram- 
mar-lad under his pedagogue must not 
be uttered without the cursory eyes of a 
temporising and extemporising licenser? 
He who is not trusted with his own ac- 
tions, his drift not being known to be evil, 
and standing to the hazard of law and 
penalty, has no great argument to think 
himself reputed in the Common- [230 
wealth wherein he was born, for other 
than a fool or a foreigner. When a man 
writes to the world, he summons up all his 
reason and deliberation to assist him; he 
searches, meditates, is industrious, and 
likely consults and confers with his judi- 
cious friends; after all which done, he 
takes himself to be informed in what he 
writes, as well as any that writ before him; 
if in this the most consummate act [240 
of his fidelity and ripeness, no years, no 
industry, no former proof of his abilities, 
can bring him to that state of maturity, 
as not to be still mistrusted and suspected, 
unless he carry all his considerate dili- 
gence, all his midnight watchings, and 
expense of Palladian oil, to the hasty view 
of an unleisured licenser, perhaps much his 
younger, perhaps far his inferior in judg- 
ment, perhaps one who never knew [250 
the labor of book writing; and if he be 
not repulsed, or slighted, must appear in 
print like a puny with his guardian, and 
his censor's hand on the back of his title 
to be his bail and security that he is no 
idiot, or seducer, — it can not be but a 
dishonor and derogation to the author, 
to the book, to the privilege and dignity 
of learning. . . . 

Lords and Commons of England, [260 
consider what nation it is whereof ye are, 
and whereof ye are the governors: a na- 
tion not slow and dull, but of a quick, 
ingenious, and piercing spirit, acute to 
invent, subtle and sinewy to discourse, 
not beneath the reach of any point the 
highest that human capacity can soar to. 
Therefore the studies of learning in her 
deepest sciences have been so ancient and 
so eminent among us, that writers of [270 
good antiquity and ablest judgment have 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



been persuaded that even the school of 
Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom took 
beginning from the old philosophy of this 
island. And that wise and civil Roman, 
Julius Agricola, who governed once here 
for Caesar, preferred the natural wits of 
Britain, before the labored studies of the 
French. . . . Yet that which is above 
all this, the favor and the love of [280 
Heaven, we have great argument to think 
in a peculiar manner propitious and pro- 
pending towards us. Why else was this 
nation chosen before any other, that 
out of her as out of Sion should be pro- 
claimed and sounded forth the first tidings 
and trumpet of Reformation to all Eu- 
rope? ... But now, as our obdurate clergy 
have with violence demeaned the matter, 
we are become hitherto the latest [290 
and the backwardest scholars, of whom 
God offered to have made us the teachers. 
Now once again by all concurrence of 
signs, and by the general instinct of holy 
and devout men, as they daily and sol- 
emnly express their thoughts, God is 
decreeing to begin some new and great 
period in His church, even to the reform- 
ing of Reformation itself: what does He 
then but reveal Himself to His serv- [300 
ants, and as His manner is, first to His 
Englishmen: I say as His manner is, first 
to us, though we mark not the method of 
His counsels, and are unworthy. Behold 
now this vast city: a city of refuge, the 
mansion house of liberty, encompassed 
and surrounded with His protection. 
The shop of war hath not there more 
anvils and hammers waking, to fashion 
out the plates and instruments of [310 
armed justice in defense of beleaguered 
truth, than there be pens and heads 
there, sitting by their studious lamps, 
musing, searching, revolving new no- 
tions and ideas wherewith to present, as 
with their homage and their fealty, the 
approaching Reformation; others as fast 
reading, trying all things, assenting to 
the force of reason and convincement. 
What could a man require more from [320 
a nation so pliant and so prone to seek 
after knowledge? What wants there to 
such a towardly and pregnant soil, but 
wise and faithful laborers, to make a 
knowing people, a nation of prophets, of 



sages, and of worthies? We reckon more 
than five months yet to harvest; there 
need not be five weeks; had we but eyes 
to lift up, the fields are white already. 
Where there is much desire to learn, [330 
there of necessity will be much arguing, 
much writing, many opinions; for opinion 
in good men is but knowledge in the mak- 
ing. Under these fantastic terrors of 
sect and schism, we wrong the earnest 
and zealous thirst after knowledge and 
understanding which God hath stirred 
up in this city. What some lament of, 
we rather should rejoice at; should rather 
praise this pious forwardness among [340 
men, to reassume the ill-deputed care of 
their religion into their own hands again. 
A little generous prudence, a little for- 
bearance of one another, and some grain 
of charity might win all these dihgences 
to join and unite in one general and 
brotherly search after truth, could we 
but forego this prelatical tradition of 
crowding free consciences and Christian 
liberties into canons and precepts of [350 
men. I doubt not, if some great and 
worthy stranger should come among us, 
wise to discern the mould and temper of 
a people, and how to govern it, observing 
the high hopes and aims, the diligent 
alacrity of our extended thoughts and 
reasonings in the pursuance of truth and 
freedom, but that he would cry out as 
Pyrrhus did, admiring the Roman docility 
and courage, "If such were my [360 
Epirots, I would not despair the greatest 
design that could be attempted to make 
a church or kingdom happy." Yet these 
are the men cried out against for schis- 
matics and sectaries; as if, while the 
temple of the Lord was building, some 
cutting, some squaring the marble, others 
hewing the cedars, there should be a sort 
of irrational men who would not con- 
sider there must be many schisms [370 
and many dissections made in the quarry 
and in the timber, ere the house of God 
can be built. And when every stone is 
laid artfully together, it cannot be united 
into a continuity, it can but be contiguous 
in this world; neither can every piece 
of the building be of one form ; nay, rather 
the perfection consists in this, that out 
of many moderate varieties and brotherly 



MILTON 



185 



dissimilitudes that are not vastly [380 
disproportional, arises the goodly and 
the graceful symmetry that commends 
the whole pile and structure. Let us 
therefore be more considerate builders, 
more wise in spiritual architecture, when 
great reformation is expected. For now 
the time seems come, wherein Moses the 
great prophet may sit in heaven rejoicing 
to see that memorable and glorious wish 
of his fulfilled, when not only our [390 
seventy elders, but all the Lord's people, 
are become prophets. No marvel then 
though some men, and some good men 
too, perhaps, but young in goodness, as 
Joshua then was, envy them. They fret, 
and out of their own weakness are in 
agony, lest those divisions and subdivi- 
sions will undo us. The adversary again 
applauds, and waits the hour; when they 
have branched themselves out (saith [400 
he) small enough into parties and par- 
titions, then will be our time. Fool! 
he sees not the firm root, out of which 
we all grow, though into branches; nor 
will beware until he see our small di- 
vided maniples cutting through at every 
angle of his Hi-united and unwieldy 
brigade. . . . 

And now the time in special is, by priv- 
ilege to write and speak what may help [410 
to the further discussing of matters in 
agitation. The temple of Janus with his 
two controversal faces might now not 
unsignificantly be set open. And though 
all the winds of doctrine were let loose to 
play upon the earth, so Truth be in the 
field, we do injuriously by licensing and 
prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let 
her and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew 
Truth put to the worse, in a free [420 
and open encounter? Her confuting is 
the best and surest suppressing. He who 
hears what praying there is for light and 
clearer knowledge to be sent down among 
us, would think of other matters to be 
constituted beyond the discipline of 
Geneva, framed and fabricked already to 
our hands. Yet when the new light which 
we beg for shines in upon us, there be 
who envy and oppose, if it come not [430 
first in at their casements. What a collu- 
sion is this, whenas we are exhorted by 
the wise man to use diligence, to seek for 



wisdom as for hidden treasures early and 
late, that another order shall enjoin us 
to know nothing but by statute? When 
a man hath been laboring the hardest labor 
in the deep mines of knowledge, hath fur- 
nished out his findings in all their equipage, 
drawn forth his reasons as it were [440 
a battle ranged, scattered and defeated 
all objections in his way, calls out his 
adversary into the plain, offers him the 
advantage of wind and sun, if he please, 
only that he may try the matter by dint 
of argument — for his opponents then 
to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a 
narrow bridge of licensing where the chal- 
lenger should pass, though it be valor 
enough in soldiership, is but weakness [450 
and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For 
who knows not that Truth is strong, next 
to the Almighty? She needs no policies, 
no stratagems, no licensings to make her 
victorious; those are the shifts and the 
defenses that error uses against her power. 
Give her but room, and do not bind her 
when she sleeps, for then she speaks not 
true, as the old Proteus did, who spake 
oracles only when he w^as caught and [460 
bound; but then rather she turns herself 
into all shapes, except her own, and per- 
haps tunes her voice according to the 
time, as Micaiah did before Ahab, until 
she be adjured into her own likeness. Yet 
it is not impossible that she may have 
more shapes than one. What else is all 
that rank of things indifferent, wherein 
Truth may be on this side, or on the 
other, without being unlike herself? [470 
What but a vain shadow else is the aboli- 
tion of those ordinances, that hand-writ- 
ing nailed to the cross? what great pur- 
chase is this Christian liberty which Paul 
so often boasts of? His doctrine is, that 
he who eats or eats not, regards a day or 
regards it not, may do either to the Lord. 
How many other things might be tolerated 
in peace, and left to conscience, had we 
but charity, and were it not the [4S0 
chief stronghold of our hypocrisy to be 
ever judging one another. I fear yet this 
iron yoke of outward conformity hath 
left a slavish print upon our necks; the 
ghost of a linen decency yet haunts us. 
We stumble and are impatient at the least 
dividing of one \'isible congregation from 



J 86 



PURITANS AND CA VALIERS 



another, though it be not in fundamen- 
tals; and through our forwardness to sup- 
press, and our backwardness to re- [490 
cover any enthralled piece of truth out 
of the gripe of custom, we care not to keep 
truth separated from truth, which is the 
fiercest rent and disunion of all. We do 
not see that while we still affect by all 
means a rigid external formahty, we may 
as soon fall again into a gross conforming 
stupidity, a stark and dead congealment 
of wood and hay and stubble forced and 
frozen together, which is more to the [500 
sudden degenerating of a church than 
many subdichotomies of petty schisms. 
Not that I can think well of every light 
separation, or that all in a church is to 
be expected gold and silver and precious 
stones. It is not possible for man to sever 
the wheat from the tares, the good fish 
from the other fry; that must be the 
angels' ministry at the end of mortal 
things. Yet if all cannot be of one [510 
mind, (as who looks they should be?) this 
doubtless is more wholesome, more pru- 
dent, and more Christian, that many be 
tolerated, rather than all compelled. I 
mean not tolerated popery, and open 
superstition, which, as it extirpates all 
religions and civil supremacies, so itself 
should be extirpate, provided first that 
all charitable and compassionate means 
be used to win and regain the weak [520 
and the misled: that also which is im- 
pious or evil absolutely either against 
faith or manners, no law can possibly 
permit that intends not to unlaw itself. 
But those neighboring diiJerences, or 
rather indifferences, are what I speak of, 
whether in some point of doctrine or of 
discipline, which though they may be 
many, yet need not interrupt the unity of 
Spirit, if we could but find among us [530 
the bond of peace. In the meanwhile if 
any one would write, and bring his helpful 
hand to the slow-moving reformation 
which we labor under, if Truth have 
spoken to him before others, or but seemed 
at least to speak, who hath so bejesuited 
us that we should trouble that man with 
asking license to do so worthy a deed? 
and not consider this, that if it come 
to prohibiting, there is not aught [540 
more likely to be prohibited than truth 



itself; whose first appearance to our eyes 
bleared and dimmed with prejudice and 
custom, is more unsightly and unplausible 
than many errors, even as the person is 
of many a great man slight and con- 
temptible to see to. And what do they 
tell us vainly of new opinions, when this 
very opinion of theirs, that none must 
be heard but whom they like, is the [550 
worst and newest opinion of all others, 
and is the chief cause why sects and 
schisms do so much abound, and true 
knowledge is kept at distance from us, 
besides yet a greater danger which is in 
it? For when God shakes a kingdom 
with strong and healthful commotions to 
a general reforming, 'tis not untrue that 
many sectaries and false teachers are 
then busiest in seducing; but yet [560 
more true it is, that God then raises to 
His own work men of rare abilities, and 
more than common industry, not only to 
look back and revise what hath been 
taught heretofore, but to gain further 
and go on, sonje new enlightened steps 
in the discovery of truth. For such is 
the order of God's enlightening His church, 
to dispense and deal out by degrees His 
beam, so as our earthly eyes may [570 
best sustain it. Neither is God appointed 
and confined, where and out of what 
place these His chosen shall be first 
heard to speak; for He sees not as man 
sees, chooses not as man chooses, lest we 
should devote ourselves again to set 
places, and assemblies, and outward call- 
ings of men; planting our faith one while 
in the old Convocation House, and an- 
other while in the Chapel at West- [580 
minster; when all the faith and religion 
that shall be there canonized, is not suf- 
ficient without plain con\dncement, and 
the charity of patient instruction, to 
supple the least bruise of conscience, to 
edify the meanest Christian, who desires 
to walk in the Spirit, and not in the letter 
of human trust, for all the number of 
voices that can be there made; — no, 
though Harry VII himself there, with [590 
all his liege tombs about him, should lend 
them voices from the dead, to swell their 
number. . . . 

And as for regulating the Press, let no 
man think to have the honor of advising 



PEPYS 



187 



ye better than yourselves have done in 
that order published next before this, 
" that no book be printed, unless the print- 
er's and the author's name, or at least 
the printer's, be registered." Those [600 
which otherwise come forth, if they be 
found mischievous and libelous, the fire 
and the executioner will be the timeliest 
and the most effectual remedy that man's 
prevention can use. For this authentic 
Spanish policy of licensing books, if I 
have said aught, will prove the most 
unlicensed book itself within a short while; 
and was the immediate image of a Star 
Chamber decree to that purpose made [610 
in those very times when that court did 
the rest of those her pious works, for 
which she is now fallen from the stars 
with Lucifer. Whereby ye may guess 
what kind of state prudence, what love 
of the people, what care of religion or good 
manners, there was at the contriving, al- 
though with singular hypocrisy it pre- 
tended to bind books to their good be- 
havior. ... But of these sophisms [620 
and elenchs of merchandise I skill not. 
This I know, that errors in a good govern- 
ment and in a bad are equally almost 
incident; for what magistrate may not 
be misinformed, and much the sooner, 
if liberty of printing be reduced into the 
power of a few? But to redress willingly 
and speedily what hath been erred, and 
in highest authority to esteem a plain 
advertisement more than others have [630 
done a sumptuous bribe, is a virtue 
(honored Lords and Commons) answer- 
able to your highest actions, and whereof 
none can participate but greatest and 
wisest men. 



SAMUEL PEPYS (1633-1703) 

From his DIARY 

Jan. /, 1660 (Lord's day). This morn- 
ing (we living lately in the garret), I rose, 
put on my suit with great skirts, having 
not lately worn any other clothes but 
them. Went to Mr. Gunning's chapel at 
Exeter House, where he made a very 
good sermon. Dined at home in the 
garret, where my wife dressed the re- 



mains of a turkey, and in the doing of 
it she burned her hand. I stayed at [10 
home all the afternoon, looking over my 
accounts; then went with my wife to my 
father's, and in going observed the great 
posts which the City have set up at the 
Conduit in Fleet Street. 

Mar. §th. To Westminster by water, 
only seeing Mr. Pinkney at his own 
house, where he showed me how he had 
always kept the lion and unicorn, in the 
back of his chimney, bright, in ex- [20 
pectation of the King's coming again. 
At home I found Mr. Hunt, who told me 
how the Parliament had voted that the 
Covenant be printed and hung in churches 
again. Great hopes of the King's coming 
again. To bed. 

6th. Everybody now drinks the King's 
health without any fear, whereas before 
it was very private that a man dare do it. 

22nd. To Westminster, and re- [30 
ceived my warrant of Mr. Blackburne to 
be secretary to the two Generals of the 
Fleet. 

2yd. My Lord, Captain Isham, Mr. ^ 
Thomas, John Crewe, W. Howe, and I in 
a hackney to the Tower, where the barges 
stayed for us; my Lord and the Captain 
in one, and W. Howe and I, &c., in the 
other, to the Long Reach, where the 
Swiftsure lay at anchor; (in our way we [40 
saw the great breach which the late high 
water had made, to the loss of many 
£1,000 to the people about Limehouse). 
Soon as my Lord on board, the guns went 
off bravely from the ships. And a little 
while after comes the Vice-Admiral Law- 
son, and seemed very respectful to my 
Lord, and so did the rest of the com- 
manders of the frigates that were there- 
abouts. I to the cabin allotted for [50 
me, which was the best that any had that 
belonged to my Lord. 

May I. To-day I hear they were very 
merry at Deal setting up the King's flag 
upon one of their maypoles, and drink- 
ing his health upon their knees in the 
streets, and firing the guns, wliich the 
soldiers of the castle threatened, but durst 
not oppose. 

2nd. In the morning at a breakfast [60 
of radishes in the Purser's cabin. After 
that, to writing till dinner. At which 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



time comes Dunne from London, with 
letters that tell us the welcome news of 
the Parliament's votes yesterday, which 
will be remembered for the happiest May- 
day that hath been many a year to Eng- 
land. The King's letter was read in 
the House, wherein he submits himself and 
all things to them, as to an Act of [70 
Oblivion to all, unless they shall please to 
except any. 

jj/A (Lord's day). Trimmed in the 
morning, after that to the cook's room 
with Mr. Sheply, the first time I was there 
this voyage. Then to the quarter-deck, 
upon which the tailors and painters were 
at work cutting out some pieces of yellow 
cloth into the fashion of a crown and C. R. 
and put it upon a fine sheet, and that [80 
into the flag instead of the State's arms; 
which, after dinner, was finished and set 
up, after it had been shown to my Lord, 
who liked it so well as to bid me give the 
tailors 205. among them for doing of it. 

2;}rd. The Doctor and I waked very 
merry, only my eye was very red and ill 
in the morning from yesterday's hurt. 
In the morning came infinity of people 
on board from the King to go along [90 
with him. . . . The King, with the two 
Dukes, and Queen of Bohemia, Prin- 
cess Royal, and Prince of Orange, came 
on board, where I in their coming in 
kissed the King's, Queen's, and Princess's 
hands. . . . Infinite shooting off of the 
guns, and that in a disorder on purpose, 
which was better than if it had been 
otherwise. . . . After dinner the King 
and duke altered the names of some [100 
of the ships; viz., the Naseby into Charles; 
the Richard, James; the Speaker, Mary; 
the Dunbar, the Henry. ... All the 
afternoon the King walked here and there, 
up and down (quite contrary to what I 
thought him to have been), very active 
and stirring. Upon the quarter-deck he 
fell into discourse of his escape from 
Worcester, where it made me ready to 
weep to hear the stories that he told [no 
of his difficulties that he had passed 
through, as his travelling four days and 
three nights on foot, every step up to 
his knees in dirt, with nothing but a green 
coat and a pair of country breeches on, 
and a pair of country shoes that made 



him so sore all over his feet that he could 
scarce stir. Yet he was forced to run 
away from a miller and other company 
that took them for rogues. His sitting [120 
at table at one place, where the master of 
the house, that had not seen him in eight 
years, did know him, but kept it private; 
when at the same table there was one that 
had been of his own regiment at Wor- 
cester, could not know him, but made him 
drink the King's health, and said that the 
King was at least four fingers higher than 
he. At another place he was by some 
servants of the house made to drink, [130 
that they might know him not to be a 
Roundhead, which they swore he was. 
In another place at his inn, the master of 
the house, as the King was standing with 
his hands upon the back of a chair by the 
fireside, kneeled down and kissed his hand, 
privately, saying that he would not ask 
him who he was, but bid God bless him 
whither he was going. . . . Under sail 
all night, and most glorious weather. [140 

24th. Up, and make myself as fine as 
I could, with the linen stockings on and 
wide canons that I bought the other day 
at Hague. Extraordinary press of noble 
company, and great mirth all the day. 

2jth. By the morning we were come 
close to the land, and everybody made 
ready to get on shore. The King and the 
two dukes did eat their breakfast before 
they went, and there being set some [150 
ship's diet before them, only to show them 
the manner of the ship's diet, they eat of 
nothing else but peas and pork and boiled 
beef. I had Mr. Darcy in my cabin; and 
Dt. Gierke, who eat with me, told me how 
the King had given £50 to Mr. Sheply 
for my Lord's servants, and £500 among 
the officers and common men of the ship. 
I spoke with the Duke of York about 
business, who called me Pepys by [160 
name, and upon my desire did promise 
me his future favor. Great expectation 
of the King's making some knights, but 
there was none. About noon . . . went 
in a boat by ourselves, and so got on shore 
when the King did, who was received by 
General Monk with all imaginable love 
and respect at his entrance upon the land 
of Dover. Infinite the crowd of people, 
and the horsemen, citizens, and noble- [i 70 



PEPYS 



189 



men of all sorts. The Mayor of the town 
came and gave him his white staff, the 
badge of his place, which the King did 
give him again. The Mayor also pre- 
sented him from the town a very rich 
Bible, which he took, and said it was the 
thing that he loved above all things, in the 
world. 

September 2nd, 1666 (Lord's day). 
Some of our maids sitting up late [180 
last night to get things ready against our 
feast today, Jane called us up about three 
in the morning, to tell us of a great fire 
they saw in the city. So I rose and slipped 
on my night-gown, and went to her win- 
dow, and thought it to be on the back 
side of Mark Lane at the farthest; but, 
being unused to such fires as followed, I 
thought it far enough off; and so went 
to bed again and to sleep. About [190 
seven rose again to dress myself, and there 
looked out at the window, and saw the 
fire not so much as it was and further off. 
So to my closet to set things to rights after 
yesterday's cleaning. By and by Jane 
comes and tells me that she hears that 
above three hundred houses have been 
burned down tonight by the fire we saw, 
and that it is now burning down all Fish 
Street, by London Bridge. So I made [200 
myself ready presently, and walked to 
the Towxr, and there got up upon one 
of the high places. Sir J. Robinson's little 
son going up with me; and there I did see 
the houses at that end of the bridge all on 
fire, and an infinite great fire on this and 
the other side the end of the bridge; which, 
among other people, did trouble me for 
poor little Michell and our Sarah on the 
bridge. So down, with my heart full [210 
of trouble, to the Lieutenant of the Tower, 
who tells me that it begun this morning 
in the King's baker's house in Pudding 
Lane, and that it hath burned St. Mag- 
nus's Church and most part of Fish Street 
already. So I down to the waterside, and 
there got a boat, and through bridge, 
and there saw a lamentable fire. Poor 
Michell's house, as far as the Old Swan, 
already burned that way, and the [220 
fire running further, that in a very little 
time it got as far as the Steel-yard, while 
I was there. Everybody endeavoring to 



remove their goods, and flinging into 
the river, or bringing them into lighters 
that lay off; poor people staying in their 
houses as long as till the very fire touched 
them, and then running into boats, or 
clambering from one pair of stairs by the 
waterside to another. And among [230 
other things, the poor pigeons, I perceive, 
were loth to leave their houses, but 
hovered about the windows and balconies 
till they were some of them burned, their 
wings, and fell down. Having stayed, 
and in an hour's time seen the fire rage 
every way, and nobody, to my sight, en- 
deavoring to quench it, but to remove 
their goods, and leave all to the fire, and 
having seen it get as far as the Steel- [240 
yard, and the wind mighty high and driv- 
ing it into the city, and every thing, after 
so long a drought, proving combustible, 
even the very stones of the churches, and 
among other things the poor steeple by 

which pretty Mrs. lives, and whereof 

my old schoolfellow Elborough is par- 
son, taken fire in the very top, and there 
burned till it fell down: I to Whitehall 
(with a gentleman with me who de- [250 
sired to go off from the Tower, to see the 
fire, in my boat) ; to Whitehall, and there 
up to the King's closet in the Chapel, 
where people come about me, and I did 
give them an account dismayed them all, 
and word was carried in to the King. So 
I was called for, and did tell the King 
and Duke of York what I saw, and that 
unless his Majesty did command houses 
to be pulled down nothing could stop [260 
the fire. They seemed much troubled, 
and the King commanded me to go to 
my Lord Mayor from him, and command 
him to spare no houses, but to pull down 
before the fire every way. . . . Here 
meeting with Captain Cock, I in his 
coach, which he lent me, and Creed with 
me, to Paul's, and there walked along 
Watling Street, as well as I could; every 
creature coming away loaden with [270 
goods to save, and here and there sick 
people carried away in beds. Extraor- 
dinary good goods carried in carts and 
on backs. At last met my Lord Mayor 
in Canning Street, like a man spent, with 
a handkercher about his neck. To the 
King's message he cried, like a fainting 



I go 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



woman, "Lord! what can I do? I am 
spent: people will not obey me. I have 
been pulling down houses; but the fire [280 
overtakes us faster than we can do it." 
That be needed no more soldiers; and that 
for himself, he must go and refresh him- 
self, having been up all night. So he 
left me, and I him, and walked home, 
seeing people all almost distracted, and 
no manner of means used to quench the 
fire. The houses, too, so very thick there- 
abouts, and full of matter for burning, as 
pitch and tar, in Thames Street; and [290 
warehouses of oil, and wines, and brandy, 
and other things. . . . 

Met with the King and Duke of York 
in their barge, and with them to Queen- 
hithe, and there called Sir Richard Browne 
to them. Their order was only to pull 
down houses apace, and so below bridge 
at the waterside; but little was or could 
be done, the fire coming upon them so 
fast. Good hopes there was of stop- [300 
ping it at the Three Cranes above, and 
at Buttolph's wharf below bridge, if care 
be used; but the wind carries it into the 
city, so as we know not by the waterside 
what it do there. River full of lighters 
and boats taking in goods, and good 
goods swimming in the water. ... So 
near the fire as we could for smoke; and 
all over the Thames, with one's face in 
the wind, you were almost burned [310 
with a shower of fire-drops. This is very 
true; so as houses were burned by these 
drops and flakes of fire, — three or four, 
nay, five or six houses, one from another. 
When we could endure no more upon the 
water, we to a little ale-house on the 
Bankside, over against the Three Cranes, 
and there stayed till it was dark almost, 
and saw the fire grow; and as it grew 
darker, appeared more and more, and [320 
in corners and upon steeples, and between 
churches and houses, as far as we could 
see up the hill of the city, in a most hor- 
rid, malicious, bloody flame, not like the 
fine flame of an ordinary fire. . . . We 
stayed till, it being darkish, we saw the 
fire as only one entire arch of fire from 
this to the other side the bridge, and in 
a bow up the hill for an arch of above 
a mile long: it made me weep to see [330 
it. . . . So home with a sad heart. 



3rd. About four o'clock in the morn- 
ing, my Lady Batten sent me a cart to 
carry away all my money, and plate, and 
best things, to Sir W. Rider's at Bednall 
Green. Which I did, riding myself in 
my night-gown in the cart; and Lord! to 
see how the streets and the highways are 
crowded with people running and riding, 
and getting of carts at any rate to [340 
fetch away things. . . . At night lay down 
a little upon a quilt of W. Hewer's 
in the office, all my own things being 
packed up or gone; and after me my poor 
wife did the like, ^\e having fed upon the 
remains of yesterday's dinner, having no 
fire nor dishes, nor any opportunity of 
dressing anything. 

4th. Up by break of day to get away 
the remainder of my things; which [350 
I did by a lighter at the Iron Gate; and 
my hands so few, that it was the afternoon 
before we could get them all away. . . . 
Sir W. Batten not knowing how to remove 
his wine, did dig a pit in the garden, and 
laid it in there; and I took the opportunity 
of laying all the papers of my office that 
I could not otherwise dispose of. And 
in the evening Sir W. Penn and I did dig 
another, and put our wine in it, and [360 
I my Parmezan cheese, as well as my wine 
and some other things. . . . Now begins 
the practise of blowing up of houses 
in Tower Street, those next the Tower; 
which at first did frighten people more 
than anything; but it stopped the fire 
where it was done, it bringing down the 
houses to the ground in the same places 
they stood ; and then it was easy to quench 
what little fire was in it, though it [370 
kindled nothing almost. 

January 2nd, i66j. Up, I, and walked 
to Whitehall to attend the Duke of York, 
as usual. My wife up, and with Mrs. 
Penn to walk in the fields to frost-bite 
themselves. . . . With Sir W. Penn by 
coach to the Temple, and there 'light and 
eat a bit at an ordinary by, and then alone 
to the King's House, and there saw The 
Custom of the Country, the second [380 
time of its being acted, wherein Knipp 
does the Widow well; but, of all the plays 
that ever I did see, the worst — having 
neither plot, language, nor anything in 



PEPYS 



191 



the earth that is acceptable; only Knipp 
sings a little song admirably. But fully 
the worst play that ever I saw or I believe 
shall see. So away home, much displeased 
for the loss of so much time, and dis- 
obliging my wife by being there with- [390 
out her. So, by link, walked home, it 
being mighty cold but dry, yet bad walk- 
ing because very slippery with the frost 
and treading. Home and to my chamber 
to set down my journal, and then to 
thinking upon establishing my vows 
against the next year, and so to supper 
and to bed. 

August igth. Up, and at the office all 
the morning very busy. Towards [400 
noon I to Westminster about some tallies 
at the Exchequer, and then straight home 
again and dined, and then to sing with 
my wife with great content, and then I to 
the office again, where busy, and then out 
and took coach and to the Duke of York's 
House, all alone, and there saw Sir 
Martin Mar-all again, though I saw him 
but two days since, and do find it the most 
comical play that ever I saw in my [aio 
hfe. 

20th. Up, and to my chamber to set 
down my journal for the last three days, 
and then to the office, where busy all the 
morning. At noon home to dinner, and 
then with my wife abroad; set her down at 
the Exchange, and I to St. James's. . . . 
Thence with my Lord Bruncker to the 
Duke's playhouse (telling my wife so at 
the 'Change, where I left her), and [420 
there saw Sir Martin Mar -all again, which 
I have now seen three times, and it hath 
been acted but four times, and still find 
it a very ingenious play, and full of va- 
riety. So home, and to the office, w^here 
my eyes would not suffer me to do any- 
thing by candle-light, and so called my 
wife and walked in the garden. She 
mighty pressing for a new pair of cuffs, 
which I am against the laying out [430 
of money upon yet, which makes her 
angry. So home to supper and to bed. 

2ist. Up, and my wife and I fell out 
about the pair of cuflfs, which she hath a 
mind to have to go to see the ladies danc- 
ing tomorrow at Betty Turner's school; 
and do vex me so that I am resolved to 
deny them her. However, by-and-by a 



way was found that she had them, and I 
well satisfied, being unwilling to let [440 
our difference grow higher upon so small 
an occasion and frowardness of mine. 

22'nd. After dinner with my Lord 
Bruncker and his mistress to the King's 
playhouse, and there saw The Indian 
Emperor; where I find Nell come again, 
which I am glad of; but was most in- 
finitely displeased with her being put to 
act the Emperor's daughter, which is a 
great and serious part, which she [450 
do most basely. The rest of the play, 
though pretty good, was not well acted 
by most of them, methought; so that I 
took no great content in it. 

October igth. At the office all the morn- 
ing, where very busy, and at noon home 
to a short dinner, being full of my desire 
of seeing my Lord Orrery's new play this 
afternoon at the King's House, The 
Black Prince, the first time it is [460 
acted; where, though we come by two 
o'clock, yet there was no room in the pit, 
but we were forced to go into one of the 
upper boxes, at 45. a piece, which is the 
first time I ever sat in a box in my life. 
And in the same box come, by and by, 
behind me, my Lord Berkeley and his 
lady; but I did not turn my face to them 
to be known, so that I was excused from 
giving them my seat; and this pleas- [470 
ure I had, that from this place the scenes 
do appear very fine indeed, and much 
better than in the pit. The house infinite 
full, and the King and Duke of York was 
there. . . . So after having done business 
at the office, I home to supper and to bed. 

LOYALIST STALL BALLADS 

TO MAKE CHARLES A GREAT 
KING 

To make Charles a great King, and give 

him no power; 
To honor him much, and not obey him an 

hour; 
To provide for his safety, and take away 

his Tower; 
And to prove all is sweet, be it never so 

sour: 
The new order of the land, and the 

land's new order. 5 



192 



PURITANS AND CAVALIERS 



To secure men their lives, liberties, and 

estates, 
By arbitrary power, as it pleaseth the 

fates ; 
To take away taxes by imposing great 

rates, 
And to make us a plaster by breaking our 

pates: 
The new order, etc. 

To sit and consult for ever and a day; 10 
To counterfeit treason by a Parliamentary 

way; 
To quiet the land by a tumultuous sway; 
New plots to devise, then them to betray : 
The new order, etc. 

To send them their zealots to Heaven in a 

string. 
Who else to confusion religion will bring, 15 
Who say the Lord's Prayer is a Popish 

thing. 
Who pray for themselves, but leave out 

their King: 
The new order of the land, and the 

land's new order. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE 
HOUSE OF COMMONS 

If, Charles, thou wilt but be so kind 
To give us leave to take our mind 

Of all thy store. 
When we, thy loyal subjects, find 
Thou 'ast nothing left to give behind, 5 

We'll ask no more. 

First, for religion, it is meet 
We make it go upon new feet; 

'Twas lame before; 
One from Geneva would be sweet : i o 

Let Warwick fetch't home with his fleet, 

We'll ask no more. 

Let us a consultation call 

Of honest men, but Roundheads all, 

God knows wherefore; 15 

Allow them but a place to bawl 
'Gainst Bishops' courts canonical, 

We'll ask no more. 

Reform each University, 
And in them let no learning be, 20 

A great eye-sore; 



From hence make Rome's Arminians flee, 
That none may have free-will but we. 
We'll ask no more. 



In this we will not be denied. 
Because in you we'll not confide, 

We know wherefore; 
The citizens their plate provide; 
Do you but send in yours beside, 

We'll ask no more. 



25 



30 



THE CHARACTER OF A ROUND- 
HEAD 

What creature's this with his short hairs. 
His little band, and huge long ears, 

That this new faith hath founded? 
The Puritans were never such; 
The Saints themselves had ne'er so much;5 

Oh, such a knave's a Roundhead. 

What's he that doth the Bishops hate. 
And count their calling reprobate. 

Cause by the Pope propounded. 
And say a zealous cobbler's better 10 

Than he that studieth every letter? 

Oh, such a knave's a Roundhead. 

What's he that doth high treason say 
As often as his yea and nay. 

And wish the King confounded; 15 

And dare maintain that Master Pym 
Is fitter for the crown than him? 

Oh, such a knave's a Roundhead. 



COME, DRAWER, SOME WINE 

Come, Drawer, some wine. 
Or we'U pull down the sign, 

For we are all jovial compounders: 
We'll make the house ring 
With healths to our King, 5 

And confusion light on his confounders. 

And next, who e'er sees, 
We drink on our knees. 

To the King, — may he thirst that re- 
pines; 
A fig for those traitors , 10 

That look to our waters. 

They have nothing to do with our 
wines. 



LOYALIST STALL BALLADS 



193 



And next, here's a cup 
To the Queen; fill it up! 

Were it poison we would make an end 
on't; 15 

May Charles and she meet, 
And tread under feet 

Both Presbyter and Independent. 

To the Prince, and all others, 

His sisters and brothers, 20 

As low in condition as high-born, 
We'll drink this, and pray 
That shortly they may 

See all them that wrongs them at 
Tyburn. 

And next, here's three bowls 25 
To all gallant souls 

That for the King did, and will venture ; 
May they flourish when those 
That are his, and their foes, 

Are hanged, and rammed down to the 

center. 30 

And next, let a glass 
To our undoers pass, 

Attended with two or three curses; 
May plagues sent from hell 
Stuff their bodies as well 35 

As the cavaliers' coin doth their purses ! 



THE PROTECTING BREWER 

A brewer may be a burgess grave, 
And carry the matter so fine and so brave, 
That he the better may play the knave, 
Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may be a Parliament-man, 5 
For there the knavery first began ; 
And brew most cunning plots he can, 
Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may put on a Nabal face, 
And march to the wars with so much 
grace, 10 

That he may get a Captain's place. 
Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may speak so wondrous well 
That he may rise strange things to tell. 
And so to be made a Colonel, 15 

Which nobody can deny. 



A brewer may make his foes to flee. 
And raise his fortunes so that he 
Lieutenant-General may be. 

Which nobody can deny. 20 

A brewer he may be all in all, 
And raise his powers both great and small. 
That he may be a Lord- General, 
Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may be as bold as Hector, 25 

When he has drunk off his cup of nectar, 

And a brewer may be a Lord Protector, 

Which nobody can deny. 

Now here remains the strangest thing, 
How this brewer about his liquor did 
bring, 30 

To be an Emperor or a King, 

Which nobody can deny. 

A brewer may do what he will. 
And rob the church and state, to sell 
His soul unto the devil of hell, 35 

Which nobody can deny! 



THE LAWYERS' LAMENTATION 

FOR THE LOSS OF CHARING 

CROSS 

Undone! undone! the lawyers cry; 

They ramble up and down; 
We know not the way to Westminster 
Now Charing Cross is down. 

Then fare thee well, old Charing 
Cross, 5 

Then fare thee well, old stump; 
It was a thing set up by the King, 
And so pulled down by the Rump. 

And when they came to the bottom of the 
Strand, 
They were all at a loss; 10 

This is not the way to Westminster, 
We must go by Charing Cross. 
Then fare thee well, etc. 

The Parliament did vote it down, 

As a thing they thought most fitting, 
For fear it should fall, and so kill 'em 
all, _ _ 15 

In the House as they were sitting. 
Then fare thee well, etc. 



1 94 P URJ TA NS A ND CA VA LIERS 


The Whigs they do affirm and say, 


Now, Whigs, I would advise you all, 25 


To Popery it was bent; 


'Tis what I'd have you do; 


For what I know it might be so, 


For fear the King should come again, 


For to church it never went. 20 


Pray pull down Tyburn too! 


Then fare thee well, etc. 


Then fare thee well, old Charing 




Cross, 


This cursed Rump rebellious crew 


Then fare thee well, old stump; 30 


They were so damned hard-hearted. 


It was a thing set up by the 


They passed a vote that Charing Cross 


King, 


Should be taken down and carted. 


And so pulled down by the 


Then fare thee well, etc. 


Rump. 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700) 

ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL 

In pious times, ere priestcraft did begin, 
Before polygamy was made a sin, 
When man on many multiplied his kind, 
Ere one to one was cursedly confined, — 4 

Then Israel's monarch, . . . 

. . . wide as his command. 
Scattered his Maker's image through the 
land. 10 

****** 

Of all this numerous progeny was none 
So beautiful, so brave, as Absalon. 
****** 

Early in foreign fields he won renown 

With kings and states alUed to Israel's 
crown; 

In peace the thoughts of war he could re- 
move, 25 

And seemed as he were only born for 
love. 

Whate'er he did was done with so much 
ease, 

In him alone 'twas natural to please; 

His motions all accompanied with grace. 

And Paradise was opened in his face. 30 

With secret joy indulgent David viewed 

His youthful image in his son renewed; 

To all his wishes nothing he denied, 

And made the charming Annabel his 
bride. 

What faults he had (for who from faults is 
free?) 35 

His father could not, or he would not see. 

Some warm excesses, which the law for- 
bore. 

Were construed youth that purged by 
boiling o'er; 

And Amnon's murder by a specious name 

Was called a just revenge for injured 
fame. 40 

Thus praised and loved, the noble youth 
remained. 



While David undisturbed in Sion reigned. 
But life can never be sincerely blest; 
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the 

best. 
The Jews, a headstrong, mobdy, murmur- 
ing race 45 
As ever tried the extent and stretch of 

grace; 
God's pampered people, whom, debauched 

with ease. 
No king could govern nor no God could 

please; 
Gods they had tried of every shape and 

size 
That godsmiths could produce or priests 

devise; 50 

These Adam-wits, too fortunately free, 
Began to dream they wanted Uberty; 
And when no rule, no precedent, was 

found 
Of men by laws less circumscribed and 

bound. 
They led their wild desires to woods and 

caves, 55 

And thought that all but savages were 

slaves. 
They who, when Saul was dead, without a 

blow 
Made foolish Ishbosheth the crown forego; 
Who bam'shed David did from Hebron 

bring. 
And with a general shout proclaimed him 

King; 60 

Those very Jews who at their very best 
Their humor more than loyalty expressed, 
Now wondered why so long they had 

obeyed 
An idol monarch whom their hands had 

made ; 
Thought they might ruin him they could 

create, 65 

Or melt him to that golden calf, a State. 
But these were random bolts; no formed 

design 
Nor interest made the factious crowd to 

join: 
The sober part of Israel, free from stain, 
Well knew the value of a peaceful reign; 70 



195 



196 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



And looking backward with a wise affright 
Saw seams of wounds dishonest to the 

sight, 
In contemplation of whose ugly scars 
They cursed the memory of civil wars. 
The moderate sort of men, thus qualified, 
Inclined the balance to the better side; 76 
And David's mildness managed it so well, 
The bad found no occasion to rebel. 
But when to sin our biassed nature leans. 
The careful Devil is still at hand with 
means, 80 

And providently pimps for ill desires: 
The good old cause, revived, a plot re- 
quires ; 
Plots true or false are necessary things 
To raise up commonwealths and ruin 
kings. 
The inhabitants of old Jerusalem 85 
Were Jebusites; the town so called from 

them, 
And theirs the native right. 
But when the chosen people grew more 

strong, 
The rightful cause at length became the 

wrong; 
And every loss the men of Jebus bore, 90 
They still were thought God's enemies the 

more. 
Thus worn and weakened, well or ill con- 
tent, 
Submit they must to David's government : 
Impoverished and deprived of all com- 
mand, 
Their taxes doubled as they lost their land ; 
And, what was harder yet to flesh and 
blood, 96 

Their gods disgraced, and burnt like com- 
mon wood. 
This set the heathen priesthood in a flame. 
For priests of all religions are the same. 
Of whatsoe'er descent their godhead be. 
Stock, stone, or other homely pedigree, loi 
In his defense his servants are as bold, 
As if he had been born of beaten gold. 
The Jewish rabbins, though their enemies, 
In this conclude them honest men and 
wise. 105 

For 'twas their duty, all the learned think. 
To espouse his cause by whom they eat 

and drink. 
From hence began that Plot, the nation's 

curse. 
Bad in itself, but represented worse. 



Raised in extremes, and in extremes de- 
cried, no 

With oaths affirmed, with dying vows de- 
nied. 

Not weighed or winnowed by the multi- 
tude, 

But swallowed in the mass, unchewed and 
crude. 

Some truth there was, but dashed and 
brewed with lies 

To please the fools and puzzle all the 
wise: 115 

Succeeding times did equal folly call 

Believing nothing or beheving all. 

The Egyptian rites the Jebusites em- 
braced. 

Where gods were recommended by their 
taste; 

Such savory deities must needs be good 120 

As served at once for worship and for food. 

By force they could not introduce these 
gods. 

For ten to one in former days was odds: 

So fraud was used, the sacrificer's trade; 

Fools are more hard to conquer then per- 
suade. 125 

Their busy teachers mingled with the 
Jews 

And raked for converts even the court and 
stews : 

Which Hebrew priests the more unkindly 
took. 

Because the fleece accompanies the flock. 

Some thought they God's anointed meant 
to slay 130 

By guns, invented since full many a day: 

Our author swears it not; but who can 
know 

How far the Devil and Jebusites may go? 

This plot, which failed for want of com- 
mon sense, 

Had yet a deep and dangerous conse- 
quence; _ 13s 

For as, when raging fevers boil the blood, 

The standing lake soon floats into a flood, 

And every hostile humor which before 

Slept quiet in its channels bubbles o'er; 

So several factions from this first ferment 

Work up to foam and threat the govern- 
ment. 141 

Some by their friends, more by themselves 
thought wise. 

Opposed the power to which they could 
not rise. 



DRY DEN 



197 



Some had in courts been great and, thrown 

from thence, 
Like fiends were hardened in impenitence. 
Some, by their Monarch's fatal mercy 

grown 146 

From pardoned rebels kinsmen to the 

throne. 
Were raised in power and public office 

high; 
Strong bands, if bands ungrateful men 

could tie. 
Of these the false Achitophel was first, 1 5 o 
A name to all succeeding ages curst: 
For close designs and crooked counsels fit ; 
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; 
Restless, unfixed in principles and place; 
In power unpleased, impatient of dis- 
grace: _ _ 155 
A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 
Fretted the pigmy body to decay, 
And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. 
A daring pilot in extremity; 
Pleased with the danger when the waves 

went high, 160 

He sought the storms; but, for a calm un- 

fit. 
Would steer too nigh the sands, to boast 

his wit. 
Great wits are sure to madness near allied. 
And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; 
Else why should he, with wealth and honor 

blest, 165 

Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? 
Punish a body which he could not please. 
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? 
And all to leave what with his toil he won 
To that unfeathered two-legg'd thing, a 

son, 170 

Got, while his soul did huddled notions 

try. 
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. 
In friendship false, implacable in hate, 
Resob. ed to ruin or to rule the state; 
To compass this the triple bond he broke. 
The pillars of the public safety shook, 1 76 
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke; 
Then, seized with fear, yet still afifecting 

fame. 
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name. 
So easy still it proves in factious times 180 
With public zeal to cancel private crimes. 
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill. 
Where none can sin against the people's 

will! 



Where crowds can wink and no offence be 

known. 
Since in another's guilt they find their 

own! 185 

Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge; 
The statesman we abhor, but praise the 

judge. 
In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abbethdin 
With more discerning eyes or hands more 

clean, 
Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to re- 
dress, 190 
Swift of despatch and easy of access. 
Oh! had he been content to serve the crown 
With virtues only proper to the gown. 
Or had the rankness of the soil been freed 
From cockle that oppressed the noble 

seed, 195 

David for him his tuneful harp had 

strung 
And Heaven had wanted one immortal 

song. 
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not 

stand, 
And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land. 
Achitophel, grown weary to possess 200 
A lawful fame and lazy happiness, 
Disdained the golden fruit to gather 

free. 
And lent the crowd his arm to shake the 

tree. 
Now, manifest^ of crimes contrived long 

since. 
He stood at bold defiance \\dth his prince, 
Held up the buckler of the people's 

cause 206 

Against the crown, and skulked behind the 

laws. 
The wished occasion of the plot he takes; 
Some circumstances finds, but more he 

makes ; 
By buzzing emissaries fills the ears 210 
Of listening crowds with jealousies and 

fears 
Of arbitrary counsels brought to light. 
And proves the king himself a Jebusite. 
Weak arguments! which yet he knew full 

well 
Were strong with people easy to rebel. 215 
For, governed by the moon, the giddy 

Jews 
Tread the same track when she the prime 

renews; 

' evidently guilty. 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



And once in twenty years, their scribes 

record, 
By natural instinct they change their lord. 
Achitophel still wants a chief, and none 220 
Was found so fit as warlike Absalon. 
Not that he wished his greatness to create, 
(For politicians neither love nor hate) 
But, for he knew his title not allowed 
Would keep him still depending on the 
crowd, 225 

That kingly power, thus ebbing out, 

might be 
Drawn to the dregs of a democracy. 
Him he attempts with studied arts to 

please. 
And sheds his venom in such words as 
these: 229 

"Auspicious prince, at whose nativity 
Some royal planet ruled the southern sky. 
Thy longing country's darling and desire. 
Their cloudy pillar and their guardian fire, 
Their second Moses, whose extended wand 
Divides the seas and shows the promised 
land, _ _ .235 

Whose dawning day in every distant age 
Has exercised the sacred prophet's rage. 
The people's prayer, the glad diviner's 

theme, 
The young men's vision and the old men's 

dream. 
Thee savior, thee the nation's vows con- 
fess, 240 
And, never satisfied with seeing, bless: 
Swift unbespoken pomps thy steps pro- 
claim. 
And stammering babes are taught to lisp 

thy name. 
How long wilt thou the general joy detain, 
Starve and defraud the people of thy 



reign: 



245 



Had thus old David, from whose loins you 

spring, 
Not dared, when Fortune called him to be 

King, 
At Gath an exile he might still remain. 
And Heaven's anointing oil had been in 

vain. 265 

Let his successful youth your hopes engage. 
But shun the example of declining age. 
Behold him setting in his western skies, 
The shadows lengthening as the vapors 

rise; 



He is not now as when on Jordan's sand 270 
The joyful people thronged to see him 

land, 
Covering the beach and blackening all the 

strand; 



All sorts of men, by my successful arts 
Abhorring kings, estrange their altered 
hearts 290 

From David's rule; and 'tis the general 

cry: 
'ReUgion, commonwealth, and liberty.' 
If you, as champion of the pubHc good. 
Add to their arms a chief of royal blood. 
What may not Israel hope, and what ap- 
plause 29s 
Might such a general gain by such a 

cause? 
Not barren praise alone, that gaudy 

flower. 
Fair only to the sight, but solid power; 
And nobler is a limited^ command, 
Given by the love of all your native land, 
Than a successive title, long and dark, 301 
Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's 
ark." 
What cannot praise effect in mighty 
minds. 
When flattery soothes, and when ambi- 
tion blinds? 304 
Desire of power, on earth a vicious weed. 
Yet sprung from high is of celestial seed; 
In God 'tis glory, and when men aspire, 
'Tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire. 
The ambitious youth, too covetous of fame, 
Too full of angels' metal in his frame, 310 
Unwarily was led from virtue's ways. 
Made drunk with honor, and debauched 

with praise. 
Half loth, and half consenting to the ill, 
(For loyal blood within him struggled still,) 
He thus replied: "And what pretence 
have I 315 

To take up arms for pubhc liberty? 
My father governs with unquestioned 

right. 
The faith's defender, and mankind's de- 
light; 
Good, gracious, just, observant of the 

laws; 
And Heaven by wonders has espoused his 
cause. 320 

1 appointed. 



DRY DEN 



199 



Whom has he wronged in all his peaceful 

reign? 
Who sues for justice to his throne in vain? 
What millions has he pardoned of his foes, 
Whom just revenge did to his wrath ex- 
pose? 324 
Mild, easy, humble, studious of our good. 
Inclined to mercy and averse from blood. 
If mildness ill with stubborn Israel suit, 
His crime is God's beloved attribute. 



Why then should I, encouraging the bad, 
Turn rebel and run popularly mad? 336 
Were he a tyrant, who by lawless might 
Oppressed the Jews and raised the Jebu- 

site. 
Well might I mourn; but nature's holy 

bands 
Would curb my spirit and restrain my 

hands ; 340 

The people might assert their liberty, 
But what was right in them were crime in 

me. 
His favor leaves me nothing to require, 
Prevents my wishes, and outruns desire; 
What more can I expect while David lives? 
All but his kingly diadem he gives: 346 
And that" — But here he paused, then 

sighing said, 
"Is justly destined for a worthier head; 
For when my father from his toils shall 

rest, 349 

And late augment the number of the blest, 
His lawful issue shall the throne ascend, 
Or the collateral line, where that shall 

end. 
His brother, though oppressed with vulgar 

spite, 
Yet dauntless and secure of native right, 
Of every royal virtue stands possessed, 355 
Still dear to all the bravest and the best. 
His courage goes, his friends his truth pro- 
claim. 
His loyalty the King, the world his fame. 
His mercy even the offending crowd will 

find. 
For sure he comes of a forgiving kind. 360 
WTiy should I then repine at Heaven's 

decree. 
Which gives me no pretence to royalty? 
Yet oh.that Fate, propitiously inclined, 
Had raised my birth, or had debased my 

mind; 364 



To my large soul not all her treasure lent. 
And then betrayed it to a mean descent! 
I find, I find my mounting spirits bold. 
And David's part disdains my mother's 

mould. 
Why am I scanted by a niggard birth? 369 
My soul disdains the kindred of her earth, 
And, made for empire, whispers me within, 
'Desire of greatness is a god-like sin.'" 
Him staggering so when Hell's dire 
agent found. 
While fainting virtue scarce maintained 

her ground, 
He pours fresh forces in, and thus re- 
plies: 375 
"The eternal God, supremely good and 

wise. 
Imparts not these prodigious gifts in vain. 
What wonders are reserved to bless your 

reign! 
Against your will your arguments have 
shown 379 

Such virtue's only given to guide a throne. 
Not that your father's mildness I contemn, 
But manly force becomes the diadem. 
'Tis true he grants the people all they 

crave. 
And more, perhaps, than subjects ought 

to have; 
For lavish grants suppose a monarch tame, 
And more his goodness than his wit pro- 
claim. 386 



Doubt not; but, when he most affects the 
frown. 

Commit a pleasing rape upon the crown. 

Secure his person to secure your cause: 475 

They who possess the Prince possess the 
laws." 
He said, and this advice above the rest 

With Absalom's mild nature suited best; 

Unblamed of life (ambition set aside,) 

Not stained with cruelty nor puffed with 
pride, 480 

How happy had he been if Destiny 

Had higher placed his birth or not so high ! 

His kingly \'irtues might have claimed a 
throne 

And blessed all other countries but his 
own ; 

But charming greatness since so few re- 
fuse, 485 

'Tis juster to lament him than accuse. 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Strong were his hopes a rival to remove, 
With blandishments to gain the public 

love, 
To head the faction while their zeal was 

hot, 
And popularly prosecute the plot. 490 
To further this, Achitophel unites 
The malcontents of all the Israelites, 
Whose differing parties he could wisely 

join 
For several ends to serve the same design; 
The best, (and of the princes some were 

such,) 495 

Who thought the power of monarchy too 

much; 
Mistaken men, and patriots in their 

hearts, 
Not wicked, but seduced by impious arts; 
By these the springs of property were bent 
And wound so high they cracked the 

government. 500 

The next for interest sought to embroil 

the state 
To sell their duty at a dearer rate, 
And make their Jewish markets of the 

throne, 
Pretending public good to serve their own. 
Others thought kings an useless heavy 

load, _ 505 

Who cost too much and did too Httle good. 
These were for laying honest David by 
On principles of pure good husbandry. 
With them joined all the haranguers of the 

throng. 
That thought to get preferment by the 

tongue. 510 



A numerous host of dreaming saints suc- 
ceed 

Of the true ol d enthusiastic breed : 53 o 

'Gainst form and order they their power 
employ. 

Nothing to build, and all things to de- 
stroy. 

But far more numerous was the herd of 
such 

Who think too little, and who talk too 
much. 

These out of mere instinct, they knew not 
why, 535 

Adored their fathers' God and property. 

And, by the same blind benefit of Fate, 

The Devil and the Jebusite did hate: 



Born to be saved, even in their own de- 
spite, 
Because they could not help believing 

right. 540 

Such were the tools; but a whole Hydra 

more 
Remains, of sprouting heads too long to 

score. 
Some of their chiefs were princes of the 

land: 
In the first rank of these did Zimri stand; 
A man so various that he seemed to be 545 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome: 
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, 
Was everything by starts and nothing 

long; 
But in the course of one revolving moon 
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and 

buffoon; 550 

Then all for women, painting, rhyming, 

drinking. 
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in 

thinking. 
Blest madman, who could every hour 

employ 
With something new to wish or to enjoy! 
Railing arid praising were his usual 

themes, _ 555 

And both (to show his judgment) in ex- 
tremes : 
So over violent, or over civil. 
That every man with him was God or 

Devil. 
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art: 
Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 560 
Beggared by fools whom still he found too 

late. 
He had his jest, and they had his estate. 
He laughed himself from Court; then 

sought relief 
By forming parties, but could ne'er be 

chief: 
For spite of him, the weight of business fell 
On Absalom and wise Achitophel: 566 
Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft, 
He left not faction, but of that was left. 



Shimei , whose youth did early promise bring 
Of zeal to God, and hatred to his King, 586 
Did wisely from expensive sins refrain. 
And never broke the Sabbath but ipr gain; 
Nor ever was he known an oath to vent. 
Or curse, unless against the government. 



DRY DEN 



20I 



Thus heaping wealth by the most ready 

way ^ 591 

Among the Jews, which was to cheat and 

pray, 
The city, to reward his pious hate 
Against his master, chose him magistrate. 
His hand a vare^ of justice did uphold, 595 
His neck was loaded with a chain of gold. 
During his office treason was no crime; 
The sons of Belial had a glorious time; 
For Shimei, though not prodigal of pelf, 
Yet loved his wicked neighbor as himself. 
When two or three were gathered to de- 
claim 601 
Against the monarch of Jerusalem, 
Shimei was always in the midst of them: 
And, if they cursed the King when he was 

by, 

Would rather curse than break good com- 
pany. 605 
If any durst his factious friends accuse, 
He packed a jury of dissenting Jews; 
Whose fellow-feehng in the godly cause 
yVould free the suffering saint from human 

laws: 
For laws are only made to punish those 610 
Who serve the King, and to protect his foes. 
If any leisure time he had from power. 
Because 'tis sin to misemploy an hour, 
His business was by writing to persuade 
That kings were useless and a clog to 
trade: 615 

And that his noble style he might refine, 
No Rechabite more shunned the fumes of 

^vine. 
Chaste were his cellars, and his shrieval 

board 
The grossness of a city feast abhorred: 
His cooks with long disuse their trade 
forgot; 620 

Cool was his kitchen, though his brains 

were hot. 
Such frugal virtue malice may accuse, 
But sure 'twas necessary to the Jews: 
For towns once burnt such magistrates 

require 
As dare not tempt God's pro\ndence by 
fire. 625 



Surrounded thus with friends of every 
sort, 
Deluded Absalom forsakes the court; 

* wand. 



Impatient of high hopes, urged with re- 
nown. 

And fired with near possession of a crown. 

The admiring crowd are dazzled with sur- 
prise, 686 

And on his goodly person feed their eyes. 

His joy concealed, he sets himself to show. 

On each side bowing popularly low; 

His looks, his gestures, and his words he 
frames, 690 

And with familiar ease repeats their names. 

Thus formed by nature, furnished out 
with arts. 

He glides unfelt into their secret hearts. 

Youth, beauty, graceful action, seldom 

fail, 
But common interest always will prevail; 
And pity never ceases to be shown 725 
To him who makes the people's wrongs his 

own. 
The crowd that still beheve their kings 

oppress. 
With lifted hands their young Messiah 

bless; 
Who now begins his progress to ordain 
With chariots, horsemen, and a numerous 

train; 730 

From east to west his glories he displays, 
And, like the sun, the promised land sur- 
veys. 
Fame runs before him like the morning 

star, 
And shouts of joy salute him from afar; 
Each house receives him as a guardian god, 
And consecrates the place of his abode. 736 

Oh foolish Israel! never warned by ill! 
Still the same bait, and circumvented still! 
Did ever men forsake their present ease, 
In midst of health imagine a disease, 756 
Take pains contingent mischiefs to foresee, 
Make heirs for monarchs, and for God 

decree? 
What shall we think? Can people give 

away 
Both for themselves and sons their native 

sway? 760 

Then they are left defenceless to the sword 
Of each unbounded, arbitrary lord; 
And laws are vain by which we right enjoy. 
If kings unquestioned can those laws 

destroy. 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Yet if the crowd be judge of fit and just, 
And kings are only officers in trust, 766 
Then this resuming covenant was declared 
When kings were made, or is forever 

barred. 
If those who gave the sceptre could not tie 
By their own deed their own posterity, 770 
How then could Adam bind his future 

race? 
How could his forfeit on mankind take 

place? 
Or how could heavenly justice damn us all 
Who ne'er consented to our father's fall? 
Then kings are slaves to those whom they 

command, 775 

And tenants to their people's pleasure 

stand. 
Add that the power, for property allowed, 
Is mischievously seated in the crowd; 
For who can be secure of private right. 
If sovereign sway may be dissolved by 

might? 780 

Nor is the people's judgm_ent always true: 
The most may err as grossly as the few; 
And faultless kings run down by common 

cry 
For vice, oppression, and for tyranny. 



Now what relief can righteous David 
bring? 811 

How fatal 'tis to be too good a king! 

Friends he has few, so high the madness 
grows; 

Who dare be such must be the people's 
foes. 

Yet some there were even in the worst of 
days; 815 

Some let me name, and naming is to praise. 
In this short file Barzillai first appears, 

Barzillai, crowned with honor and with 
years. 

Long since the rising rebels he withstood 

In regions waste beyond the Jordan's 
flood: 820 

Unfortunately brave to buoy the state. 

But sinking underneath his master's fate. 

In exile for his godlike prince he mourned, 

For him he suffered, and with him re- 
turned. 

The court he practised, not the courtier's 
art: 825 

Large was his wealth, but larger was his 
heart, 



Which well the noblest objects knew to 
choose. 

The fighting warrior, and recording Muse. 

His bed could once a fruitful issue boast; 

Now more than half a father's name is 
lost. 830 

His eldest hope, with every grace adorned, 

By me, so Heaven will have it, always 
mourned 

And always honored, snatched in man- 
hood's prime 

By unequal fates and Providence's crime: 

Yet not before the goal of honor won, 83s 

All parts fulfilled of subject and of 
son; 

Swift was the race, but short the time to 



Indulge one labor more, my weary 
Muse, 

For Amiel : who can Amiel's praise refuse? 

Of ancient race by birth, but nobler yet 900 

In his own worth, and without title great: 

The Sanhedrin long time as chief he ruled, 

Their reason guided, and their passion 
cooled : 

So dexterous was he in the Crown's de- 
fence. 

So formed to speak a loyal nation's 
sense, 905 

That, as their band was Israel's tribes in 
small, 

So fit was he to represent them all. 

Now rasher charioteers the seat ascend. 

Whose loose careers his steady skill com- 
mend: 

They, like unequal ruler of the day, 910 

Misguide the seasons and mistake the 
way, 

While he, withdrawn, at their mad labor 
smiles, 

And safe enjoys the Sabbath of his toils. 
These were the chief, a small but faithful 
band 

Of worthies in the breach who dared to 
stand 915 

And tempt the united fury of the land. 

With grief they viewed such powerful 
engines bent 

To batter down the lawful government. 

A numerous faction, with pretended 
frights. 

In Sanhedrins to plume the regal rights, 



DRY DEN 



203 



The true successor from the court re- 
moved; 921 

The plot by hireling witnesses improved. 

These ills they saw, and, as their duty 
bound. 

They showed the King the danger of the 
wound; 

That no concessions from the throne 
would please, 925 

But lenitives fomented the disease; 

That Absalom, ambitious of the crown, 

Was made the lure to draw the people 
down; 

That false Achitophel's pernicious hate 

Had turned the plot to ruin Church and 
State; 930 

The council violent, the rabble worse; 

That Shimei taught Jerusalem to curse. 
With all these loads of injuries op- 
pressed, 

And long revolving in his careful breast 

The event of things, at last, his patience 
tired, 935 

Thus from his royal throne, by Heaven 
inspired, 

The godlike David spoke; with awful fear 

His train their Maker in their master hear. 
"Thus long have I, by native mercy 
swayed, 

My wTongs dissembled, my revenge de- 
layed; 940 

So willing to forgive the offending age. 

So much the father did the king assuage. 

But now so far my clemency they slight. 

The offenders question my forgiving right. 

That one was made for many, they con- 
tend; 945 

But 'tis to rule, for that's a monarch's end. 

They call my tenderness of blood my fear. 

Though manly tempers can the longest 
bear. 

Yet since they will divert my native course, 

'Tis time to show I am not good by force. 

Those heaped affronts that haughty sub- 
jects bring 951 

Are burdens for a camel, not a king. 

Kings are the public pillars of the State, 

Born to sustain and prop the nation's 
weight : 

If my young Samson will pretend a call 955 

To shake the column, let him share the 
fall. 

But oh that yet he would repent and live! 

How easy 'tis for parents to forgive! 



With how few tears a pardon might be won 
From nature, pleading for a darling son! 
Poor pitied youth, by my paternal care 961 
Raised up to all the height his frame could 

bear! 
Had God ordained his fate for empire born. 
He would have given his soul another turn : 
Gulled with a patriot's name, whose 

modern sense 965 

Is one that would by law supplant his 

prince; 
The people's brave, the politician's tool. 
Never was patriot yet but was a fool. 
Whence comes it that religion and the 

laws 
Should more be Absalom's than David's 

cause? 970 

His old instructor, ere he lost his place. 
Was never thought endued with so much 

grace. 
Good heavens, how faction can a patriot 

paint ! 
My rebel ever proves my people's saint. 
Would they impose an heir upon the 

throne? 975 

Let Sanhedrins be taught to give their 

own. 
A king's at least a part of government, 
And mine as requisite as their consent. 
Without my leave a future king to choose 
Infers a right the present to depose. 980 
True, they petition me to approve their 

choice; 
But Esau's hands suit ill with Jacob's 

voice. 
My pious subjects for my safety pray. 
Which to secure, they take my power away. 
From plots and treasons Heaven preserve 

my years, 985 

But save me most from my petitioners, 
Unsatiate as the barren womb or grave; 
God cannot grant so much as they can 

crave. 
What then is left but with a jealous eye 
To guard the small remains of royalty? 990 
The law shall still direct my peaceful sway, 
And the same law teach rebels to obey. 



By their own arts, 'tis righteously decreed, 
Those dire artificers of death shall bleed. 
Against themselves their witnesses "\\"ill 
swear 1012 

Till, viper-like, their mother-plot they tear. 



204 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



And suck for nutriment that bloody gore 
Which was their principle of life before. 
Their Belial with their Beelzebub will 

fight; 1016 

Thus on my foes my foes shall do me right. 
Nor doubt the event; for factious crowds 

engage 
In their first onset all their brutal rage. 
Then let them take an unresisted course; 
Retire and traverse, and delude their force : 
But when they stand all breathless, urge 

the fight, 1022 

And rise upon them with redoubled might : 
For lawful power is still superior found, 
When long driven back at length it stands 

the ground." 1025 

He said. The Almighty, nodding, gave 

consent ; 
And peals of thunder shook the firmament. 
Henceforth a series of new time began ; 
The mighty years in long procession ran; 
Once more the godlike Da\dd was restored, 
And willing nations knew their lawful lord. 



MAC FLECKNOE 

All human things are subject to decay, 
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must 

obey. 
This Flecknoe found, w^ho, like Augustus, 

young 
Was called to empire, and had governed 

long; 
In prose and verse, was owned without 
dispute, 5 

Through all the realms of Nonsense, ab- 
solute. 
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace. 
And blest with issue of a large increase, 
Worn out with business, did at length de- 
bate 
To settle the succession of the state; 10 
And, pondering which of all his sons was 

fit 
To reign and wage immortal war with 

wit, 
Cried, '"Tis resolved, for Nature pleads 

that he 
Should only rule who most resembles me. 
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, 15 
Mature in dulness from his tender years; 
Shadwell alone of all my sons is he 
Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. 



The rest to some faint meaning make pre- 
tence. 
But Shadwell never deviates into sense. 20 
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, 
Strike through, and make a lucid interval; 
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no 

ray, 
His rising fogs prevail upon the day. 
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye 25 
And seems designed for thoughtless maj- 
esty. 
Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade 

the plain, 
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. 
Heywood and Shirley were but types of 

thee. 
Thou last great prophet of tautology. 30 
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they. 
Was sent before but to prepare thy way. 
And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget^ 

came 
To teach the nations in thy greater name. 
My warbhng lute, the lute I whilom 

strung, 35 

When to King John of Portugal I sung, 
Was but the prelude to that glorious day 
When thou on silver Thames didst cut 

thy way, 
With well-timed oars before the royal 

barge, 
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial 

charge, 40 

And, big with hymn, commander of an 

host; 
The like w^as ne'er in Epsom blankets 

tossed. 
Methinks I see the new Arion sail. 
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. 
At thy well-sharpened thumb from shore 

to shore 45 

The treble squeaks for fear, the basses roar; 



About thy boat the little fishes throng, 
As at the morning toast that floats along. 
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious 

band, 51 

Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing 

hand. 
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal 

time. 
Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's 

rhyme: 

1 coarse cloth. 



DRY DEN 



205 



Though they in number as in sense excel, 
So just, so Uke tautology, they fell 56 

That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore. 
The lute and sword which he in triumph 

bore. 
And vowed he ne'er would act Valerius 

more." 
Here stopped the good old sire and wept 
for joy, 60 

In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. 
All arguments, but most his plays, per- 
suade 
That for anointed dulness he was made. 
Close to the walls which fair Augusta 
bind, 64 

(The fair Augusta much to fears inclined,) 
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight 
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight; 
A watch-tower once, but now, so fate or- 
dains. 
Of all the pile an empty name remains; 69 



Near these a Nursery erects its head 
Where queens are formed and future 
heroes bred, 75 

Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and 

cry, 
Where infant trulls their tender voices try. 
And little Maximins the gods defy. 
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here. 
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; 
But gentle Simkin just reception finds 81 
Amidst this monument of vanished minds ; 
Pure clinches^ the suburbian muse affords. 
And Panton waging harmless war with 

words. 
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well 

known, 85 

Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's 

throne. 
For ancient Dekker prophesied long since 
That in this pile should reign a mighty 

prince, 
Born for a scourge of wit and flail of sense, 
To whom true dulness should some 

Psyches owe, 00 

But worlds of Misers from his pen should 

flow; 
Humorists and hypocrites it should pro- 
duce, 
Whole Raymond families and tribes of 

Bruce. 



Now Empress Fame had published the 

renown 
Of Shadwell's coronation through the 

town. 95 

Roused by report of fame, the nations 

meet 
From near Bunhill and distant Watling- 

street. 
No Persian carpets spread the imperial 

way. 
But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay; 



Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there 
lay; 102 

But loads of Shadwell almost choked the 
way. 

Bilked stationers for yeomen stood pre- 
pared. 

And Herringman was captain of the guard. 

The hoary prince in majesty appeared, 106 

High on a throne of his own labors reared. 

At his right hand our young Ascanius 
sate, 

Rome's other hope and pillar of the state. 

His brows thick fogs instead of glories 
grace, no 

And lambent dulness played around his 
face. 

As Hannibal did to the altars come, 

Sworn by his sire a mortal foe to Rome; 

So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be 
vain. 

That he till death true dulness would 
maintain; 115 

And, in his father's right and realm's de- 
fence. 

Ne'er to have peace with wit nor truce 
mth sense. 

The king himself the sacred unction made. 

As king by ofi&ce and as priest by trade. 

In his sinister hand, instead of ball, 120 

He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; 

Love's Kingdom to his right he did con- 
vey, ^ 

At once his sceptre and his rule of sway; 

Whose righteous lore the prince had prac- 
tised young 

And from whose loins recorded Psyche 
sprung. 125 

His temples, last, \\'ith poppies were over- 
spread, 

That nodding seemed to consecrate his 
head. 



2o6 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Just at that point of time, if fame not lie, 
On his left hand twelve reverend owls did 

So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook. 

Presage of sway from twice six vultures 
took. 131 

The admiring throng loud acclamations 
make, 

And omens of his future empire take. 

The sire then shook the honors of his 
head, 

And from his brows damps of oblivion 
shed _ 135 

Full on the filial dulness: long he stood. 

Repelling from his breast the raging god; 

At length burst out in this prophetic mood: 

"Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let 
him reign 

To far Barbadoes on the western main; 140 

Of his dominion may no end be known, 

And greater than his father's be his throne; 

Beyond Love's Kingdom let him stretch his 
pen!" 

He paused, and all the people cried 
"Amen." 

Then thus continued he: "My son, ad- 
vance 145 

Still in new impudence, new ignorance. 

Success let others teach; learn thou from 
me 

Pangs without birth, and fruitless indus- 
try. 

Let Virtuosos in five years be writ, 

Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. 

Let gentle George in triumph tread the 
stage, _ 151 

Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage; 

Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the 
pit, 

And in their folly show the writer's wit. 

Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy de- 
fence, _ 1 55 

And justify their author's want of sense. 

Let them be all by thy own model made 

Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid. 

That they to future ages fnay be known. 

Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own. 160 

Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same. 

All fuU of thee, and differing but in name. 

But let no alien Sedley interpose 

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. 

And when false flowers of rhetoric thou 
wouldst cull, 165 

Trust nature; do not labor to be dull; 



But write thy best, and top; and in each 

line 
Sir Formal 's oratory will be thine. 
Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy 

quiU, 
And does thy northern dedications fill. 170 
Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to 

fame 
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name; 
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with 

praise, 
And imcle Ogleby thy envy raise. 
Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no 

part: _ _ 175 

What share have we in nature or in art? 
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand. 
And rail at arts he did not understand? 
Where made he love in Prince Nicander's 

vein, 
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble 

strain? 180 



When did his muse from Fletcher scenes 

purloin. 
As thou whole Etheredge dost transfuse 

to thine? 184 

But so transfused as oil on water's flow. 
His always floats above, thine sinks below. 
This is thy province, this thy wondrous 

way. 
New humors to invent for each new play: 
This is that boasted bias of thy mind, 
By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined, 
Which makes thy writings lean on one 

side still, 191 

And, in all changes, that way bends thy 

will. 
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence 
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. 
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, 195 
But sure thou art but a kilderkin of wit. 
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly 

creep; 
Thy tragic muse gives smiles; thy comic, 

sleep. 
With whate'er gall thou set'st thyself to 

write, 
Thy inoffensive satires never bite; 200 

In thy felonious heart though venom lies, 
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. 
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase 

fame 
In keen iambics, but mild anagram. 



DRY DEN 



207 



Leave writing plays, and choose for thy 
command 205 

Some peaceful province in Acrostic Land. 

There thou mayest wings display and 
altars raise, 

And torture one poor word ten thousand 
ways; 

Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents 
suit. 

Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy 
lute." 210 

He said, but his last words were scarcely 
heard, 

For Bruce and Longville had a trap pre- 
pared. 

And down they sent the yet declaiming 
bard. 

Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind. 

Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. 

The mantle fell to the young prophet's 
part 216 

With double portion of his father's art. 



From THE HIND AND THE 
PANTHER 

A milk-white Hind, immortal and un- 
changed, 

Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged ; 

Without unspotted, innocent within. 

She feared no danger, for she knew no 
sin. 

Yet had she oft been chased with horns 
and hounds 5 

And Scythian shafts, and many winged 
wounds 

Aimed at her heart; was often forced to 

fly, 

And doomed to death, though fated not 
to die. 
Not so her young ; for their unequal line 

Was hero's make, half human, half di- 
vine. 10 

Their earthly mold obnoxious was to 
fate, 

The immortal part assumed immortal 
state. 

Of these a slaughtered army lay in blood. 

Extended o'er the Caledonian wood. 

Their native walk; whose vocal blood 
arose i 5 

And cried for pardon on their perjured 
foes. 



Their fate was fruitful, and the sanguine 
seed. 

Endued with souls, increased the sacred 
breed. 

So captive Israel multiplied in chains, 

A numerous exile, and enjoyed her pains. 20 

With grief and gladness mixed, their 
mother viewed 

Her martyred offspring and their race re- 
newed ; 

Their corps to perish, but their kind to 
last, 

So much the deathless plant the dying fruit 
surpassed. 
Panting and pensive now she ranged 
alone, 25 

And wandered in the kingdoms once her 
own. 

The common hunt, though from their rage 
restrained 

By sovereign power, her company dis- 
dained ; 

Grinned as they passed, and with a glaring 
eye 

Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity. 30 

'Tis true she bounded by, and tripped so 
light 

They had not time to take a steady sight; 

For truth has such a face and such a mien 

As to be loved needs only to be seen. 
The bloody Bear, an Independent 
beast 35 

Unlicked to form, in groans her hate ex- 
pressed. 

Among the timorous kind the quaking 
Hare 

Professed neutrality, but would not swear. 

Next her the buffoon Ape, as atheists 
use, 

Mimicked all sects, and had his own to 
choose; 40 

Still when the Lion looked, his knees he 
bent. 

And paid at church a courtier's compli- 
ment. 

The bristled Baptist Boar, impure as he, 

But whitened with the foam of sanctity, 

With fat pollutions filled the sacred 
place, 45 

And mountains levelled in his furious race: 

So first rebellion founded was in grace. 

But since the mighty ravage which he 
made 

In German forests had his guilt betrayed, 



208 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



With broken tusks and with a borrowed 
name, 5° 

He shunned the vengeance and concealed 
the shame, 

So lurked in sects unseen. With greater 
guile 

False Reynard fed on consecrated spoil; 

The graceless beast by Athanasius first 

Was chased from Nice; then, by Socinus 
nursed, 55 

His impious race their blasphemy re- 
newed. 

And nature's king through nature's optics 
viewed. 

Reversed, they viewed him lessened to 
their eye, 

Nor in an infant could a God descry. 

New swarming sects to this obliquely 
tend; 60 

Hence they began, and here they all will 
end. 



The Panther, sure the noblest next the 

Hind, 
And fairest creature of the spotted kind; 
Oh, could her inborn stains be washed 

away, 
She were too good to be a beast of prey ! 330 
How can I praise or blame, and not of- 
fend. 
Or how divide the frailty from the friend? 
Her faults and virtues lie so mixed, that 

she 
Nor wholly stands condemned, nor wholly 

free. 
Then, like her injured Lion, let me speak; 
He cannot bend her and he would not 

break. 336 

Unkind already, and estranged in part. 
The Wolf begins to share her wandering 

heart. 
Though unpolluted yet with actual ill. 
She half commits who sins but in her 

will. 340 

If, as our dreaming Platonists report. 
There could be spirits of a middle sort, 
Too black for heaven and yet too white 

for hell, 
Who just dropped half-way down, nor 

lower fell; 
So poised, so gently she descends from 

high, 345 

It seems a soft dismission from the sky. 



Her house not ancient, whatsoe'er pre- 
tence 

Her clergy heralds make in her defence; 

A second century not half-way run. 

Since the new honors of her blood be- 
gun. 350 



A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 
NOVEMBER 22, 1687 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
This universal frame began: 
When Nature underneath a heap 

Of jarring atoms lay. 
And could not heave her head, 5 

The tuneful voice was heard from high: 
"Arise, ye more than dead." 

Then cold and hot and moist and dry 
In order to their stations leap. 
And Music's power obey. 10 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
This universal frame began : 
From harmony to harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes it 

ran, 
The diapason closing full in Man. 15 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell ! 
When Jubal struck the chorded shell, 
His listening brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 20 

Less than a god they thought there could 
not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise and quell ! 



The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us to arms 
With shrill notes of anger 

And mortal alarms. 
The double, double, double beat 

Of the thundering drum 

Cries: "Hark! the foes come; 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!" 



25 



30 



The soft complaining flute 

In dying notes discovers 

The woes of hopeless lovers, 35 

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling 
lute. 



DRYDEN 



209 



Sharj^) violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains, and height of passion, 40 

For the fair, disdainful dame. 

But oh! what art can teach. 
What human voice can reach 
The sacred organ's praise? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 45 

Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above. 
Orpheus could lead the savage race; 
And trees unrooted left their place, 

Sequacious of the lyre; 50 

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder 

higher: 
When to her organ vocal breath was given. 
An angel heard, and straight appeared. 
Mistaking earth for heaven. 

Grand Chorus 

As from the power of sacred lays 55 

The spheres began to move, ' 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the blessed above; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 60 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
The dead shall live, the living die, 
And Music shall untune the sky. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE 
POWER OF MUSIC 

A Song in Honor of St. Cecilia's Day, 
1697 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son: 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne: 5 

His vaUant peers were placed around; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 
bound: 
(So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, 10 
In flower of }'outh and beauty's pride. 
Happ}-, happy, happy pair I 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 15 



Chorus 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Timotheus, placed on high 20 

Amid the tuneful choir, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre: 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 25 

Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love.) 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god: 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 30 
And while he sought her snowy 
breast ; 
Then round her slender waist he curled, 
And stamped an image of himself, a 
sovereign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty 

sound, 
"A present deity," they shout around; 
"A present deity," the vaulted roofs 
rebound: 36 

With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod, 40 

And seems to shake the spheres. 

Chorus 

With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod, 45 

And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musi- 
cian sung, 
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. 
The jolly god in triumph comes; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the 
drums; 50 

Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face: 
Now give the hautboj^s breath; he comes, 
he comes. 
Bacchus, e\er fair and young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain; 55 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 



2IO 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 60 

Chorus 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; 

Rich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 65 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew 
vain; 
Fought all his battles o'er again; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice 
he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise. 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 70 
And, while he heaven and earth de- 
fied, 
Changed his hand, and checked his 
pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse, 
Soft pity to infuse; 
He sung Darius great and good, 75 

By too severe a fate. 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood; 
Deserted at his utmost need 80 

By those his former bounty fed; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast looks the joyless victor 
sate. 
Revolving in his altered soul 85 
The various turns of chance be- 
low; 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

Chorus 

Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance be- 
low; 90 

And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 95 
For pity melts the mind to love. 



Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleas- 
ures. 
"War," he sung, "is toil and trouble; 
Honor but an empty bubble; 100 

Never ending, still beginning. 
Fighting still, and still destroying: 
If the world be worth thy win- 
ning. 
Think, oh think it worth enjo3dng; 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 105 
Take the good the gods provide 
thee." 

The many rend the skies with loud ap- 
plause: 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the 
cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Gazed on the fair no 

Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and 

looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 
pressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her 
breast, 115 

Chorus 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and 

looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 120 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 
pressed. 
The vanquished victor simk upon her 
breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again: 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 125 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of 
thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head; 
As awaked from the dead. 
And, amazed, he stares around. 130 
" Revenge, revenge ! " Timotheus cries, 
"See the Furies arise! 
See the snakes that they rear. 
How they hiss in their hair, 



DRY DEN 



211 



And the sparkles that flash from their 
eyes! 135 

Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle 
were slain, 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain: 140 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian 
abodes. 
And glittering temples of their hostile 
gods!" _ _ 145 

The princes applaud with a furious joy; 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 
to destroy; 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy. 150 

Chorus 

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 
to destroy; 
Thais led the way. 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy. 

Thus, long ago, 155 

Ere hea\'ing bellows learned to blow. 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 
desire. 160 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 
store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 165 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts un- 
known before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 

Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down. 



170 



Grand Chorus 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 



The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 
store. 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts un- 
known before. 176 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 

Or both divide the crown ; 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down. i8o 



LINES PRINTED UNDER THE EN- 
GRAVED PORTRAIT OF MILTON 

(In Tonson's folio edition of Paradise 
Lost, 1688) 

Three poets, in three distant ages bom, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, 
The next in majesty, in both the last: 
The force of Nature could no farther go; 
To make a third she joined the former two. 



From AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC 
POESY 

As Neander was beginning to examine 
The Silent Woman, Eugenius, earnestly 
regarding him: I beseech you, Neander, 
said he, gratify the company, and me in 
particular, so far as, before you speak 
of the play, to give us a character of the 
author; and tell us frankly your opinion, 
whether you do not think all writers, 
both French and EngHsh, ought to give 
place to him? [10 

I fear, replied Neander, that, in obey- 
ing your commands, I shall draw some 
envy on myself. Besides, in performing 
them, it will be first necessary to speak 
somewhat of Shakespeare and Fletcher, his 
rivals in poesy; and one of them, in my 
opinion, at least his equal, perhaps his 
superior. 

To begin then with Shakespeare. He 
was the man who of all modern, and [20 
perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and 
most comprehensive soul. All the images 
of nature were still present to him, and 
he drew them not laboriously, but luckily: 
when he describes anything, you more 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



than see it, you feel it too. Those who 
accuse him to have wanted learning, give 
him the greater commendation: he was 
naturally learned; he needed not the 
spectacles of books to read nature; he [30 
looked inwards, and found her there. I 
cannot say he is everywhere alike; were 
he so, I should do him injury to compare 
him with the greatest of mankind. He 
is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit 
degenerating into clenches, his serious 
swelling into bombast. But he is always 
great, when some great occasion is pre- 
sented to him: no man can say, he ever 
had a fit subject for his wit, and did [40 
not then raise himself as high above the 
rest of poets. 

Quantum lenta solvent inter viburna cu- 
pressi. 

The consideration of this made Mr. 
Hales of Eton say, that there was no 
subject of which any poet ever writ, but 
he would produce it much better done in 
Shakespeare; and however others are now 
generally preferred before him, yet the [50 
age wherein he lived, which had contem- 
poraries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, 
never equaled them to him in their es- 
teem: and in the last king's court, when 
Ben's reputation was at highest. Sir 
John Suckling, and with him the greater 
part of the courtiers, set our Shakespeare 
far above him. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am 
next to speak, had, with the advantage [60 
of Shakespeare's wit, which was their pre- 
cedent, great natural gifts, improved by 
study; Beaumont especially being so 
accurate a judge of plays, that Ben Jon- 
son, while he lived, submitted all his writ- 
ings to his censure, and 'tis thought, 
used his judgment in correcting, if not 
contriving all his plots. What value he 
had for him, appears by the verses he 
writ to him; and therefore I need speak [70 
no further of it. The first play that 
brought Fletcher and him in esteem, was 
their Philaster; for before that, they had 
written two or three very unsuccessfully: 
as the like is reported of Ben Jonson, 
before he writ Every Man in his Humor. 
Their plots were generally more regular 
than Shakespeare's, especially those which 



were made before Beaumont's death; 
and they understood and imitated the [80 
conversation of gentlemen much better; 
whose wild debaucheries, and quickness 
of wit in repartees, no poet before them 
could paint as they have done. Humor, 
which Ben Jonson derived from particu- 
lar persons, they made it not their busi- 
ness to describe; they represented all 
the passions very lively, but above all, 
love. I am apt to believe the English 
language in them arrived to its high- [90 
est perfection ; what words have since been 
taken in, are rather superfluous than 
ornamental. Their plays are now the 
most pleasant and frequent entertain- 
ments of the stage; two of theirs being 
acted through the year for one of Shake- 
speare's or Jonson's: the reason is, because 
there is a certain gaiety in their come- 
dies, and pathos in their more serious 
plays, which suits generally with all [100 
men's humors. Shakespeare's language is 
likewise a little obsolete, and Ben Jon- 
son's wit comes short of theirs. 

As for Jorison, to whose character I 
am now arrived, if we look upon him 
while he was himself (for his last plays 
were but his dotages), I think him the 
most learned and judicious writer which 
any theater ever had. He was a most 
severe judge of himself, as well as [no 
others. One cannot say he wanted wit, 
but rather that he was frugal of it. In his 
works you find little to retrench or alter. 
Wit and language, and humor also in 
some measure, we had before him; but 
something of art was wanting to the 
drama, till he came. He managed his 
strength to more advantage than any 
who preceded him. You seldom find him 
making love in any of his scenes, or [120 
endeavoring to move the passions; his 
genius was too sullen and saturnine to do 
it gracefully, especially when he knew he 
came after those who had performed both 
to such an height. Humor was his proper 
sphere; and in that he delighted most 
to represent mechanic people. He was 
deeply conversant in the ancients, both 
Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly 
from them: there is scarce a poet [130 
or historian among the Roman authors 
of those times, whom he has not trans- 



DRYDEN 



213 



lated in Sejanus and Catiline. But be 
has done his robberies so openly, that 
one may see he fears not to be taxed by 
any law. He invades authors Hke a 
monarch; and what would be theft in 
other poets, is only victory in him. With 
the spoils of these writers he so repre- 
sents old Rome to us, in its rites, [140 
ceremonies, and customs, that if one of 
their poets had written either of his 
tragedies, we had seen less of it than in 
him. If there was any fault in his lan- 
guage, it was, that he weaved it too 
closely and laboriously, in his comedies 
especially: perhaps, too, he did a little 
too much Romanize our tongue, leaving 
the words which he translated almost 
as much Latin as he found them: [150 
wherein, though he learnedly followed their 
language, he did not enough comply with 
the idiom of ours. If I would compare 
him with Shakespeare, I must acknowledge 
him the more correct poet, but Shake- 
speare the greater wit. Shakespeare was 
the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets; 
Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elabo- 
rate writing; I admire him, but I love 
Shakespeare. To conclude of him; as [160 
he has given us the most correct plays, so 
in the precepts which he has laid down 
in his Discoveries, we have as many and 
profitable rules for perfecting the stage, 
as any wherewith the French can furnish 
us. 



From the PREFACE TO THE FABLES 

It remains that I say somewhat of 
Chaucer in particular. 

In the first place, as he is the father of 
English poetry, so I hold him in the same 
degree of veneration as the Grecians 
held Homer, or the Romans Virgil. He 
is a perpetual fountain of good sense, 
learned in all sciences, and therefore 
speaks properly on all subjects. As he 
knew what to say, so he knows also [10 
when to leave off; a continence which is 
practised by few writers, and scarcely by 
any of the ancients, excepting Virgil and 
Horace. One of our late great poets is 
sunk in his reputation because he could 
never forgive anv conceit which came in 



his way, but swept, like a drag-net, great 
and small. There was plenty enough, 
but the dishes were ill sorted; whole 
pyramids of sweetmeats for boys and [20 
women, but little of solid meat for men. 
All this proceeded, not from any want of 
knowledge, but of judgment. Neither 
did he want that in discerning the beau- 
ties and faults of other poets, but only 
indulged himself in the luxury of writing; 
and perhaps knew it was a fault but hoped 
the reader would not find it. For this 
reason, though he must always be thought 
a great poet, he is no longer esteemed [30 
a good writer; and for ten impressions, 
which his works have had in so many 
successive years, yet at present a hundred 
books are scarcely purchased once a 
twelvemonth; for, as my last Lord Roches- 
ter said, though somewhat profanely, 
"Not being of God, he could not stand." 

Chaucer followed nature everywhere, 
but was never so bold to go beyond her; 
and there is a great difference of being [40 
poeta and nimis poeta, if we believe Catul- 
lus, as much as betwLxt a modest behavior 
and affectation. The verse of Chaucer, 
I confess, is not harmonious to us; but 
'tis like the eloquence of one whom Taci- 
tus commends, it was aiiribiis istius tem- 
poris accommodata; they who lived with 
him, and some time after him, thought it 
musical; and it continues so even in our 
judgment, if compared with the num- [50 
bers of Lydgate and Gower, his contem- 
poraries; there is the rude sweetness of a 
Scotch tune in it, w^hich is natural and 
pleasing though not perfect. "Tis true I 
cannot go so far as he who published 
the last edition of him, for he would make 
us believe the fault is in our ears, and 
that there were really ten syllables in a 
verse where we find but nine; but this 
opinion is not worth confuting; 'tis so [60 
gross and ob\dous an error that common 
sense (which is a rule in everything but 
matters of faith and revelation) must 
con\dnce the reader that equality of 
numbers, in every verse which we call 
heroic, was either not known or not always 
practised in Chaucer's age. It were an 
easy matter to produce some thousands 
of his verses which are lame for want of 
half a foot, and sometimes a whole [70 



214 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



one, and which no pronunciation can 
make otherwise. We can only say that 
he lived in the infancy of our poetry, 
and that nothing is brought to perfec- 
tion at the first. We must be children 
before we grow men. 



He must have been a man of a most 
wonderful comprehensive nature, because, 
as it has been truly observed of him, he 
has taken into the compass of his [80 
Canterbury Tales the various manners 
and humors (as we now call them) of the 
whole English nation in his age. Not a 
single character has escaped him. All 
his pilgrims are severally distinguished 
from each other, and not only in their 
inclinations but in their very physiog- 
nomies and persons. Baptista Porta 
could not have described their natures 
better than by the marks which the [90 
poet gives them. The matter and manner 
of their tales and of their telling are so 
suited to their different educations, hu- 
mors, and callings that each of them would 
be improper in any other mouth. Even 
the grave and serious characters are dis- 
tinguished by their several sorts of gravity : 
their discourses are such as belong to 
their age, their calling, and their breed- 
ing; such as are becoming of them, [100 
and of them only. Some of his persons 
are vicious and some virtuous; some are 
unlearned, or (as Chaucer calls them) 
lewd, and some are learned. Even the 
ribaldry of the low characters is different: 
the Reeve, the Miller, and the Cook are 
several men, and distinguished from each 
other as much as the mincing Lady 
Prioress and the broad-speaking, gap- 
toothed Wife of Bath. But enough [no 
of this; there is such a variety of game 
springing up before me that I am dis- 
tracted in my choice and know not which 
to follow. It is sufficient to say, accord- 
ing to the proverb, that here is God's 
plenty. We have our forefathers and 
great-grand-dames all before us as they 
were in Chaucer's days: their general 
characters are still remaining in man- 
kind, and even in England, though [120 
they are called by other names than those 
of monks, and friars, and canons, and 



lady abbesses, and nuns; for mankind is 
ever the same, and nothing lost out of 
nature though everything is altered. 



DANIEL DEFOE (1660?-1731) 

From THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISH- 
MAN 

Satire, be kind, and draw a silent veil. 
Thy native England's vices to conceal; 
Or, if that task's impossible to do, 
At least be just, and show her virtues too; 
Too great the first, alas! the last too few. 5 



Ingratitude, a devil of black renown, 
Possessed her very early for his own: 
An ugly, surly, sullen, selfish spirit. 
Who Satan's worst perfections does in- 
herit; 
Second to him in malice and in force, 10 
All devil without, and all within him 

worse. 
He made her first-bom race to be so 

rude, 
And suffered her to be so oft subdued, 
By several crowds of wandering thieves 

o'er-run. 
Often unpeopled, and as oft undone; 15 
While every nation that her powers re- 
duced 
Their languages and manners introduced; 
From whose mixed relics our compounded 

breed 
By spurious generation does succeed, 
Making a race uncertain and uneven, 20 
Derived from all the nations under 

heaven. 
The Romans first with Julius Caesar 

came. 
Including all the nations of that name, 
Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards; and by 

computation 
Auxiliaries or slaves of every nation. 25 
With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sweno 

came. 
In search of plunder, not in search of 

fame. 
Scots, Picts, and Irish from the Hibernian 

shore ; 
And conquering William brought the 

Normans o'er. 



DEFOE 



215 



All these their barbarous offspring left 
behind, 30 

The dregs of armies, they of all man- 
kind. 

Blended with Britons, who before were 
here, 

Of whom the Welsh have blest the char- 
acter. 
From this amphibious, ill-born mob 
began 

That vain, ill-natured thing, an EngUsh- 
man. 35 

The customs, sir-names, languages and 
manners, 

Of all these nations, are their own ex- 
plainers; 

Whose relics are so lasting and so strong, 

They've left a shibboleth upon our tongue; 

By which, with easy search, you may 
distinguish 40 

Your Roman, Saxon, Danish, Norman, 
English. 



And here begins the ancient pedigree 
That so exalts our poor nobility: — 
'Tis that from some French trooper they 

derive, 
Who with the Norman bastard did arrive: 
The trophies of the families appear; 46 
Some show the sword, the bow, and some 

the spear. 
Which their great ancestor, forsooth, did 

wear. 
These in the herald's register remain. 
Their noble mean extraction to explain; 50 
Yet who the hero was, no man can tell, 
Whether a drummer, or a colonel; 
The silent record blushes to reveal 
Their undescended dark original. 

But grant the best. How came the 

change to pass, 55 

A true-born Englishman of Norman race? 
A Turkish horse can show more history 
To prove his well-descended family. 
Conquest, as by the moderns 'tis expressed. 
May give a title to the lands possessed; 60 
But that the longest sword should be so 

civil 
To make a Frenchman English, that's the 

de\dl. 
These are the heroes that despise the 

Dutch, 
And rail at new-come foreigners so much; 



Forgetting that themselves are all derived 

From the most scoundrel race that ever 
lived, 66 

A horrid crowd of rambling thieves and 
drones 

Who ransacked kingdoms and dispeopled 
towns; 

The Pict and painted Briton, treacherous 
Scot, 

By hunger, theft, and rapine, hither 
brought ; 70 

Norwegian pirates, buccaneering Danes, 

Whose red-haired offspring everywhere re- 
mains ; 

Who, joined with Norman French, com- 
pound the breed 

From whence your true-born Englishmen 
proceed. 



But England, modem to the last de- 
gree. 
Borrows or makes her own nobility, 76 

And yet she boldly boasts of pedigree; 
Repines that foreigners are put upon 

her, 
And talks of her antiquity and honor. 
Her Sackvills, Savils, Cecils, Delameres, 80 
Mohuns, Montagues, Duras and Veeres, 
Not one have English names, yet all are 

EngUsh peers. 
Your Houblons, Papillons, and Lethuliers, 
Pass now for true-born English knights 

and squires. 
And make good senate-members, or lord 

mayors. 85 

Wealth, howsoever got, in England makes 
Lords of mechanics, gentlemen of rakes. 
Antiquity and birth are needless here; 
'Tis impudence and money makes a peer. 
Innumerable city knights we know, 90 
From Blue-coat Hospitals, and Bridewell 

flow. 
Draymen and porters fill the city chair, 
And foot-boys magisterial purple wear. 
Fate has but very small distinction set 
Betwixt the Counter and the coronet. 95 
Tarpaulin lords, pages of high renown. 
Rise up by poor men's valor, not their 

own; 
Great families of yesterday we show, 
And lords, whose parents were the Lord 

knows who. 



2l6 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Then let us boast of ancestors no more, 
Or deeds of heroes done in days of yore, 
In latent records of the ages past, 102 

Behind the rear of time, in long oblivion 

placed; 
For if our virtues must in lines descend. 
The merit with the families would end, 105 
And intermixture would most fatal grow. 
For vice would be hereditary too; 
The tainted blood would of necessity 
Involuntary wickedness convey. 

Vice, like ill-nature, for an age or two 
May seem a generation to pursue; m 

But virtue seldom does regard the breed; 
Fools do the wise, and wise men fools 

succeed. 
What's it to us what ancestors we had? 
If good, what better? or what worse, if 

bad? 115 

Examples are for imitation set. 
Yet all men follow virtue with regret. 
Could but our ancestors retrieve their 

fate. 
And see their offspring thus degenerate, — 
How we contend for birth and names un- 
known, 120 
And build on their past actions, not our 

own,— 
They'd cancel records, and their tombs 

deface, 
And openly disown the vile degenerate 

race; 
For fame of families is all a cheat; 
It's personal virtue only makes us great. 125 



THE SHORTEST WAY WITH THE 
DISSENTERS 

Sir Roger L'Estrange tells us a story in 
his collection of fables, of the cock and 
the horses. The cock was gotten to roost 
in the stable among the horses; and there 
being no racks or other conveniences for 
him, it seems he was forced to roost upon 
the ground. The horses jostling about for 
room and putting the cock in danger of 
his life, he gives them this grave advice, 
"Pray, gentlefolks, let us stand stiU, [10 
for fear we should tread upon one an- 
other." 

There are some people in the world, 
who, now they are unperched, and re- 
duced to an equality with other people, 



and under strong and very just appre- 
hensions of being further treated as they 
deserve, begin, with Esop's cock, to preach 
up peace and union and the Christian 
duties of moderation; forgetting that [20 
when they had the power in their hands, 
those graces were strangers in their gates! 
It is now near fourteen years, that the 
glory and peace of the purest and most 
flourishing Church in the world has been 
eclipsed, buffeted, and disturbed by a 
sort of men whom God in his providence 
has suffered to insult over her, and bring 
her down. These have been the days 
! of her humiliation and tribulation. She [30 
has borne with an invincible patience the 
reproach of the wicked; and God has at 
last heard her prayers, and delivered her 
from the oppression of the stranger. 

And now, they find their day is over, 

their power gone, and the throne of this 

nation possessed by a royal, English, 

true, and ever constant member of, and 

friend to, the Church of England. Now 

! they find that they are in danger of [40 

1 the Church of England's just resentments. 

I Now, they cry out, "Peace!" "Union!" 

I "Forbearance!" and "Charity!": as if 

the Church had not too long harbored her 

enemies under her wing, and nourished 

the viperous brood, till they hiss and fly 

in the face of the mother that cherished 

them! 

No, gentlemen, the time of mercy is 
past, your day of grace is over, you [50 
should have practised peace, and modera- 
tion, and charity, if you expected any 
yourselves. 

We have heard none of this lesson for 
fourteen years past. We have been huffed 
and bullied with your Act of Toleration. 
You have told us that you are the Church 
established by law, as well as others ; have 
set up your canting synagogues at our 
church doors; and the Church and her [60 
members have been loaded with re- 
proaches, with oaths, associations, ab- 
jurations, and what not! Where has been 
the mercy, the forbearance, the charity 
you have shown to tender consciences of 
the Church of England that could not 
take oaths as fast as you made them; that, 
having sworn allegiance to their lawful 
and rightful king, could not dispense with 



DEFOE 



217 



their oath, their king being still alive, [70 
and swear to your new hodge-podge of a 
Dutch government? These have been 
turned out of their livings, and they and 
their families left to starve; their estates 
double taxed to carry on a war they had 
no hand in, and you got nothing by! 
What account can you give of the multi- 
tudes you have forced to comply, against 
their consciences, with your new sophis- 
tical politics, who, like new converts [80 
in France, sin because they cannot starve? 
And now the tables are turned upon you, 
you must not be persecuted! It is not a 
Christian spirit! 

You have butchered one king, deposed 
another king, and made a mock king of 
a third, and yet, you could have the face 
to expect to be employed and trusted by 
the fourth! Anybody that did not know 
the temper of your party, would stand [90 
amazed at the impudence as well as folly 
to think of it! 

Your management of your Dutch mon- 
arch, whom you reduced to a mere King 
of Clubs, is enough to give any future 
princes such an idea of your principles 
as to warn them sufficiently from coming 
into your clutches; and, God be thanked, 
the Queen is out of your hands, knows 
you, and will have a care of you! [100 

There is no doubt but the supreme au- 
thority of a nation has in itself a power, 
and a right to that power, to execute the 
laws upon any part of that nation it 
governs. The execution of the known laws 
of the land, and that with but a gentle 
hand neither, was all that the fanatical 
party of this land have ever called perse- 
cution. This they have magnified to 
a height that the sufferings of the [no 
Huguenots in France were not to be com- 
pared with. Now to execute the known 
laws of a nation upon those who trans- 
gress them, after voluntarily consenting 
to the making of those laws, can never 
be called persecution, but justice. But 
justice is always violence to the party 
offending, for every man is innocent in 
his own eyes. The first execution of the 
laws against Dissenters in England [120 
was in the days of King James I; and 
what did it amount to? Truly, the worst 
they suffered was, at their own request. 



to let them go to New England, and erect 
a new colony; and give them great privi- 
leges, grants, and suitable powers; keep 
them under protection, and defend them 
against all invaders; and receive no taxes 
or revenue from them! This was the 
cruelty of the Church of England. [130 
Fatal lenity! It was the ruin of that 
excellent prince. King Charles I. Had 
King James sent all the Puritans in Eng- 
land away to the West Indies, we had 
been a national unmixed Church. The 
Church of England had been kept undi- 
vided and entire! 

To requite the lenity of the father, they 
take up arms against the son, conquer, 
pursue, take, imprison, and at last [140 
put to death the anointed of God, and 
destroy the very being and nature of 
government: setting up a sordid impostor, 
who had neither title to govern, nor under- 
standing to manage, but supplied that 
want, with power, bloody and desperate 
counsels and craft, without conscience. 

Had not King James I withheld the 
full execution of the laws, had he given 
them strict justice, he had cleared [150 
the nation of them, and the consequences 
had been plain: his son had never been 
murdered by them, nor the monarchy 
overwhelmed. It was too much mercy 
shown them that was the ruin of his pos- 
terity, and the ruin of the nation's peace. 
One would think the Dissenters should 
not have the face to believe that we are 
to be wheedled and canted into peace 
and toleration, when they know that [160 
they have once requited us with a civil 
war, and once with an intolerable and 
unrighteous persecution, for our former 
civility. 

Nay, to encourage us to be easy with 
them, it is apparent that they never had 
the upper hand of the Church but they 
treated her with all the severity, with all 
the reproach and contempt as was pos- 
sible! What peace and what mercy [170 
did they show the loyal gentry of the 
Church of England, in the time of their 
triumphant Commonwealth? How did 
they put all the gentry of England to 
ransom, whether they were actually in 
arms for the king or not, making people 
compound for their estates, and starve 



2lS 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



their families! How did they treat the 
clergy of the Church of England, sequester 
the ministers, devour the patrimony [i8o 
of the Church and divide the spoil, by 
sharing the Church lands among their 
soldiers, and turning her clergy out to 
starve! Just such measure as they have 
meted, should be measured them again! 

Charity and love is the known doctrine 
of the Church of England, and it is plain 
she has put it in practise towards the 
Dissenters, even beyond what they ought, 
till she has been wanting to herself, [190 
and in effect unkind to her own sons; par- 
ticularly, in the too much lenity of King 
James I, mentioned before. Had he so 
rooted the Puritans from the face of the 
land, which he had an opportunity early 
to have done, they had not had the power 
to vex the Church, as since they have 
done. 

In the days of King Charles II, how 
did the Church reward their bloody [200 
doings with lenity and mercy! Except 
the barbarous regicides of the pretended 
court of justice, not a soul suffered for all 
the blood in an unnatural war. King 
Charles came in all mercy and love, 
cherished them, preferred them, employed 
them, withheld the rigor of the law and 
oftentimes, even against the advice of his 
Parliament, gave them liberty of con- 
science; and how did they requite [210 
him? With the villainous contrivance to 
depose and murder him and his successor, 
at the Rye House Plot! 

King James II, as if mercy was the 
inherent quality of the family, began 
his reign with unusual favor to them. 
Nor could their joining with the Duke of 
Monmouth againsc him, move him to do 
himself justice upon them. But that 
mistaken prince, thinking to win [220 
them by gentleness and love, proclaimed 
a universal liberty to them, and rather 
discountenanced the Church of England 
than them. How they requited him, all 
the world knows! 

The late reign is too fresh in the memory 
of all the world to need a comment. How 
under pretense of joining with the Church 
in redressing some grievances, they pushed 
things to that extremity, in conjunc- [230 
tion with some mistaken gentlemen, as to 



depose the late king; as if the grievance 
of the nation could not have been re- 
dressed but by the absolute ruin of the 
prince. Here is an instance of their 
! temper, their peace, and charity! To 
j what height they carried themselves dur- 
i ing the reign of a king of their own, how 
j they crept into all places of trust and 
profit; how they insinuated them- [240 
selves into the favor of the king, and 
were at first preferred to the highest 
places in the nation, how they engrossed 
the ministry; and, above all, how pitifully 
they managed, is too plain to need any 
remarks. . . . 

These are the gentlemen! these, their 
ways of treating the Church, both at 
I home and abroad! Now let us examine 
I the reasons they pretend to give, why [250 
j we should be favorable to them; why we 
I should continue and tolerate them among 
j us. 

First. They are very numerous, they 

I say. They are a great part of the nation, 

j and we cannot suppress them. 

To this, may be answered: 

First. They are not so numerous as 

the Protestants in France: and yet the 

French king effectually cleared the [260 

nation of them at once; and we don't find 

he misses them at home! But I am not 

of the opinion they are so numerous as is 

pretended. Their party is more numerous 

than their persons; and those mistaken 

people of the Church who are misled 

and deluded by their wheedling artifices 

to join with them, make their party the 

greater: but those will open their eyes 

when the government shall set heartily [270 

about the work, and come off from them, 

as some animals, which they say, always 

desert a house when it is likely to fall. 

Secondly. The more numerous, the 
more dangerous; and therefore the more 
need to suppress them; and God has 
suffered us to bear them as goads in our 
sides, for not utterly extinguishing them 
long ago. 

Thirdly. If we are to allow them, [280 
only because we cannot suppress them; 
then it ought to be tried, whether we can 
or no. And I am of opinion it is easy to 
be done, and could prescribe ways and 
means, if it were proper: but I doubt not 



DEFOE 



219 



the government will find effectual methods 
for the rooting of the contagion from the 
face of this land. 

Another argument they use, which is 
this: that it is a time of war, and we [290 
have need to unite against the common 
enemy. 

We answer, this common enemy had 
been no enemy, if they had not made him 
so. He was quiet, in peace, and no way 
disturbed or encroached upon us; and we 
know no reason we had to quarrel with 
him. 

But, further, we make no question but 
we are able to deal with this common [300 
enemy without their help: but why must 
we unite with them, because of the 
enemy? Will they go over to the enemy, 
if we do not prevent it, by a union with 
them? We are very well contented they 
should, and make no question we shall 
be ready to deal with them and the com- 
mon enemy too; and better without them 
than with them. Besides, if we have a 
common enemy, there is the more [310 
need to be secure against our private 
enemies. If there is one common enemy, 
we have the less need to have an enemy 
in our bowels ! 

It was a great argument some people 
used against suppressing the old money, 
that "it was a time of war, and it was 
too great a risk for the nation to run. If 
we should not master it, we should be 
undone!" And yet the sequel proved [320 
the hazard was not so great, but it might 
be mastered, and the success was answer- 
able. The suppressing the Dissenters is 
not a harder work, nor a work of less 
necessity to the public. We can never 
enjoy a settled, uninterrupted union and 
tr-'inquillity in this nation, till the spirit 
of Whiggism, faction, and schism is melted 
down like the old money! .... 

The representatives of the nation [330 
have now an opportunity. The time is 
come which all good men have wished 
for, that the gentlemen of England may 
serve the Church of England, now they 
are protected and encouraged by a Church 
of England queen! . . . 

If ever you will establish the best Chris- 
tian Church in the world; if ever you will 
suppress the spirit of enthusiasm; if ever 



you will free the nation from the [340 
viperous brood that have so long sucked 
the blood of their mother; if ever you will 
leave your posterity free from faction 
and rebellion, this is the time! This is 
the time to pull up this heretical weed of 
sedition, that has so long disturbed the 
peace of our Church, and poisoned the 
good corn! 

But, says another hot and cold objec- 
tor, this is renewing fire and faggot, [350 
reviving the Act De heretico comburendo. 
This will be cruelty in its nature, and 
barbarous to all the world. 

I answer, it is cruelty to kill a snake or 
a toad in cold blood, but the poison of 
their nature makes it a charity to our 
neighbors to destroy those creatures, not 
for any personal injury received, but for 
prevention; not for the evil they have 
done, but the evil they may do. Ser- [360 
pents, toads, vipers, etc., are noxious to the 
body, and poison the sensitive life: these 
poison the soul, corrupt our posterity, 
ensnare our children, destroy the vitals 
of our happiness, our future felicity, and 
contaminate the whole mass! 

Shall any law be given to such wild 
creatures? Some beasts are for sport, 
and the huntsmen give them advantages 
of ground, but some are knocked on [370 
the head by all possible ways of violence 
and surprise. 

I do not prescribe fire and faggot; but 
as Scipio said of Carthage, Delenda est 
Carthago! they are to be rooted out of 
this nation, if ever we will live in peace, 
serve God, or enjoy our own. As for the 
manner, I leave it to those hands who 
have a right to execute God's justice on 
the nation's and the Church's enemies. [383 

But if we must be frighted from this 
justice, under these specious pretenses, 
and odious sense of cruelty, nothing will 
be effected. It will be more barbarous to 
our own children and dear posterity, when 
they shall reproach their fathers, as we 
do ours, and tell us, "You had an op- 
portunity to root out this cursed race 
from the world under the favor and pro- 
tection of a true Church of England [390 
queen, and out of your foolish pity, you 
spared them, because, forsooth, you would 
not be cruel! And now our Church is 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



suppressed and persecuted, our religion 
trampled under foot, our estates plun- 
dered, our persons imprisoned, and dragged 
to gaols, gibbets, and scaffolds! Your 
sparing this Amalekite race is our de- 
struction! Your mercy to them proves 
cruelty to your poor posterity ! " [400 

How just will such reflections be when 
our posterity shall fall under the merci- 
less clutches of this uncharitable genera- 
tion; when our Church shall be swallowed 
up in schism, faction, enthusiasm, and 
confusion; when our government shall 
be devolved upon foreigners, and our 
monarchy dwindled into a republic! 

It would be more rational for us, if we 
must spare this generation, to sum- [410 
mon our own to a general massacre; and 
as we have brought them into the world 
free, to send them out so; and not betray 
them to destruction by our supine negli- 
gence, and then cry, "It is mercy!" 

Moses was a merciful meek man; and 
yet with what fury did he run through 
the camp, and cut the throats of three 
and thirty thousand of his dear Israelites 
that were fallen into idolatry. What [420 
was the reason? It was mercy to the 
rest, to make these examples, to prevent 
the destruction of the whole army. 

How many millions of future souls we 
save from infection and delusion, if the 
present race of poisoned spirits were 
purged from the face of the land! 

It is vain to trifle in this matter. The 
light foolish handling of them by mulcts, 
fines, etc., — 'tis their glory and their [430 
advantage! If the gallovv^s instead of the 
Counter, and the galleys instead of the 
fines were the reward of going to a con- 
venticle to preach or hear, there would 
not be so many sufferers. The spirit of 
martyrdom is over. They that will go 
to church to be chosen sheriffs and mayors, 
would go to forty churches rather than 
be hanged ! 

If one severe law were made and [440 
punctually executed that whoever was 
found at a conventicle should be banished 
the nation, and the preacher be hanged, 
we should soon see an end of the tale. 
They would all come to church, and one 
age would make us all one again. 

To talk of five shillings a month for not 



coming to the sacrament, and one shilling 
per week, for not coming to church: 
this is such a way of converting [450 
people as was never known. This is 
selling them a liberty to transgress, for 
so much money. If it be not a crime, 
why don't we give them full license? And 
if it be, no price ought to compound for 
the committing it, for that is selling a 
liberty to people to sin against God and 
the government. 

If it be a crime of the highest conse- 
quence, both against the peace and [460 
welfare of the nation, the glory of God, 
the good of the Church, and the happiness 
of the soul, let us rank it among capital 
offenses, and let it receive a punishment 
in proportion to it. 

We hang men for trifles, and banish 
them for things not worth naming; but 
that an offense against God and the 
Church, against the welfare of the world, 
and the dignity of religion shall be [470 
bought off for five shillings: this is such 
a shame to a Christian government that 
it is with regret I transmit it to posterity. 

If men sin against God, affront his 
ordinances, rebel against his Church, 
and disobey the precepts of their su- 
periors; let them suffer, as such capital 
crimes deserve. So will religion flourish, 
and this divided nation be once again 
united. . . . [4S0 

How can we answer it to God, to the 
Church, and to our posterity, to leave 
them entangled with fanaticism, error, 
and obstinacy, in the bowels of the nation; 
to leave them an enemy in their streets, 
that, in time, may involve them in the 
same crimes, and endanger the utter ex- 
tirpation of the religion of the nation. 

What is the difference betwixt this, and 
being subject to the power of the [490 
Church of Rome, from whence we have 
reformed? If one be an extreme on one 
hand, and one on another, it is equally 
destructive to the truth to have errors 
settled among us, let them be of what 
nature they will. Both are enemies of 
our Church, and of our peace; and why 
should it not be as criminal to admit an 
enthusiast as a Jesuit? Why should the 
Papist with his seven sacraments be [500 
w^orse than the Quaker with no sacraments 



DEFOE 



221 



at all? Why should religious houses be 
more intolerable than meeting houses? 
Alas, the Church of England! What 
with popery on one hand, and schismatics 
on the other, how has she been crucified 
between two thieves. Now, let us crucify 
the thieves! 

Let her foundations be established upon 
the destruction of her enemies! The [510 
doors of mercy being always open to the 
returning part of the deluded people, let 
the olastinate be ruled with the rod of 



iron 



Let all true sons of so holy and op- 
pressed a mother, exasperated by her 
afflictions, harden their hearts against 
those who have oppressed, her. 

And may God Almighty put it into the 
hearts of all the friends of truth, to [520 
lift up a standard against pride and Anti- 
christ, that the posterity of the sons of 
error may be rooted out from the face of 
this land, for ever! 

A TRUE RELATION 

OF 

THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL 

The next day after her death, to Mrs. 
Bargrave, at Canterbury, the eighth 
of September, 1705 

The Preface 

This relation is matter of fact, and at- 
tended with such circumstances as may 
induce any reasonable man to believe it. 
It was sent by a gentleman, a justice of 
peace at Maidstone, in Kent, and a very 
intelligent person, to his friend in London, 
as it is here worded; which discourse is at- 
tested by a very sober and understanding 
gentlewoman and kinswoman (of the said 
gentleman's) who lives in Canterbury, [10 
within a few doors of the house in which 
the within-named Mrs. Bargrave lives; 
who believes his kinswoman to be of so dis- 
cerning a spirit, as not to be put upon by 
any fallacy, and who positively assured 
him that the whole matter as it is here re- 
lated and laid down is what is really true, 
and what she herself had in the same words, 
as near as may be, from Mrs. Bargrave's 
own mouth, who she knows, had no [20 



reason to invent and publish such a story, 
or any design to forge and tell a lie, being a 
woman of much honesty and virtue, and 
her whole life a course, as it were, of 
piety. The use which we ought to make 
of it is to consider that there is a life to 
come after this, and a just God who will 
retribute to every one according to the 
deeds done in the body, and therefore to 
reflect upon our past course of life we [30 
have led in the world; that our time is 
short and uncertain; and that if we would 
escape the punishment of the ungodly 
and receive the reward of the righteous, 
which is the laying hold of eternal life, 
we ought, for the time to come, to return 
to God by a speedy repentance, ceasing 
to do evil, and learning to do well; to 
seek after God early, if haply He may 
be found of us, and lead such lives [40 
for the future as may be well pleasing in 
His sight. 

A Relation of the Apparition of 
Mrs. Veal 

This thing is so rare in all its circum- 
stances, and on so good authority, that 
my reading and conversation has not 
given me anything like it. It is fit to 
gratify the most ingenious and serious 
inquirer. Mrs. Bargrave is the person 
to whom Mrs. Veal appeared after her 
death; she is my intimate friend, and I 
can avouch for her reputation for these 
last fifteen or sixteen years, on my [10 
own knowledge; and I can confirm the 
good character she had from her youth 
to the time of my acquaintance; though 
since this relation she is calumniated by 
some people that are friends to the 
brother of Mrs. Veal who appeared, who 
think the relation of this appearance to 
be a reflection, and endeavor what they 
can to blast Mrs. Bargrave's reputation, 
and to laugh the story out of coun- [20 
tenance. But by the circumstances 
thereof, and the cheerful disposition of 
Mrs. Bargrave, notwithstanding the un- 
heard-of ill-usage of a very wicked hus- 
band, there is not the least sign of dejec- 
tion in her face; nor did I ever hear her 
let fall a desponding or murmuring ex- 
pression; nay, not when actually under 
her husband's barbarity, which I ha\-e 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



been witness to, and several other [30 
persons of undoubted reputation. 

Now you must know Mrs. Veal was a 
maiden gentlewoman of about thirty 
years of age, and for some years last past 
had been troubled with fits, which were 
perceived coming on her by her going 
off from her discourses very abruptly to 
some impertinence. She was maintained 
by an only brother, and kept his house 
in Dover. She was a very pious [40 
woman, and her brother a very sober man, 
to all appearance; but now he does all he 
can to null or quash the story. Mrs. Veal 
was intimately acquainted with Mrs. 
Bargrave from her childhood. Mrs. 
Veal's circumstances were then mean; her 
father did not take care of his children as 
he ought, so that they were exposed to 
hardships; and Mrs. Bargrave in those 
days had as unldnd a father, though [50 
she wanted neither for food nor clothing, 
whilst Mrs. Veal wanted for both; so that 
it was in the power of Mrs. Bargra\^e to 
be very much her friend in several in- 
stances, which mightily endeared Mrs. 
Veal; insomuch that she would often 
say, "Mrs. Bargrave, you are not only 
the best, but the only friend I have in the 
world; and no circumstance in life shall 
ever dissolve my friendship." They [60 
would often condole each other's adverse 
fortunes, and read together "DreUncourt 
upon Death," and other good books; and 
so, like two Christian friends, they com- 
forted each other under their sotrow. 

Some time after, Mr. Veal's friends got 
him a place in the custom-house at Dover, 
which occasioned Mrs. Veal, by little and 
little, to fall off from her intimacy with 
Mrs. Bargrave, though there never [70 
was any such thing as a quarrel; but an 
indifferency came on by degrees, till at 
last Mrs. Bargrave had not seen her in 
two years and a half; though about a 
twelvemonth of the time Mrs. Bargrave 
had been absent from Dover, and this 
last half-year had been in Canterbury 
about two months of the time, dwelling 
in a house of her own. 

In this house, on the 8th of Septem- [So 
ber last, viz., 1705, she was sitting alone, 
in the forenoon, thinking over her un- 
fortunate life, and arguing herself into 



a due resignation to Providence, though 
her condition seemed hard. "And," said 
she, "I have been provided for hitherto, 
and doubt not but 1 shall be still; and am 
well satisfied that my afflictions shall end 
when it is most fit for me;" and then 
took up her sewing-work, which she [90 
had no sooner done but she hears a knock- 
ing at the door. She went to see who it 
was there, and this proved to be Mrs. 
Veal, her old friend, who was in a riding- 
habit; at that moment of time the clock 
struck twelve at noon. 

"Madam," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I 
am surprised to see you, you have been 
so long a stranger;" but told her she was 
glad to see her, and offered to salute [100 
her, which Mrs. Veal complied with, till 
their lips almost touched; and then Mrs. 
Veal drew her hand across her own eyes 
and said, "I am not very well," and so 
waived it. She told Mrs. Bargrave she 
was going a journey, and had a great 
mind to see her first. "But," says Mrs. 
Bargrave, "how came you to take a 
journey alone? I am amazed at it, be- 
cause I know you have so fond a [no 
brother." "Oh," says Mrs. Veal, "I 
gave my brother the slip, and came away, 
because I had so great a desire to see you 
before I took my journey." So Mrs. 
Bargrave went in with her into another 
room mthin the first, and Mrs. Veal set 
her down in an elbow-chair, in which 
Mrs. Bargrave was sitting when she heard 
Mrs. Veal knock. Then says Mrs. Veal, 
" My dear friend, I am come to renew [120 
our old friendship again, and beg your 
pardon for my breach of it; and if you 
can forgive me, you are one of the best of 
women." "Oh," says Mrs. Bargrave, 
"don't mention such a thing. I have not 
had an uneasy thought about it; I can 
easily forgive it." "What did you think 
of me?" said Mrs. Veal. Says Mrs. 
Bargrave, " I thought you were like the 
rest of the world, and that prosperity [130 
had made you forget yourself and me." 
Then Mrs. Veal reminded Mrs. Bargrave 
of the many friendly offices she did in 
her former days, and much of the con- 
versation they had with each other in 
the time of their adversity; what books 
they read, and what comfort in particular 



DEFOE 



223 



they received from Drelincourt's "Book 
of Death," which was the best, she said, 
on that subject ever wrote. She [140 
also mentioned Dr. Sherlock, and two 
Dutch books which were translated, wrote 
upon death, and several others; but Dre- 
lincourt, she said, had the clearest notions 
of death and of the future state of any 
who had handled that subject. Then she 
asked Mrs. Bargrave whether she had 
Drelincourt. She said, "Yes." Says 
Mrs. Veal, "Fetch it." And so Mrs. 
Bargrave goes upstairs and brings it [150 
down. Says Mrs. Veal, "Dear Mrs. Bar- 
grave, if the eyes of our faith were as 
open as the eyes of our body, we should 
see numbers of angels about us for our 
guard. The notions we have of heaven 
now are nothing like to what it is, as 
Drelincourt says. Therefore be com- 
forted under your afflictions, and believe 
that the Almighty has a particular regard 
to you, and that your afflictions are [160 
marks of God's favor; and when they have 
done the business they are sent for, they 
shall be removed from you. And believe 
me, my dear friend, believe what I say 
to you, one minute of future happiness 
will infinitely reward you for all your 
sufferings; for I can never believe" (and 
claps her hand upon her knee with great 
earnestness, which indeed ran through 
most of her discourse) "that ever [170 
God will suffer you to spend all your 
days in this afflicted state; but be assured 
that your afflictions shall leave you, or 
you them, in a short time." She spake 
in that pathetical and heavenly manner 
that Mrs. Bargrave w^ept several times, 
she was so deeply affected with it. 

Then Mrs. Veal mentioned Dr. Hor- 
neck's "Ascetick," at the end of which he 
gives an account of the lives of the [iSo 
primitive Christians. Their pattern she 
recommended to our imitation, and said 
their conversation was not like this of 
our age; "for now," says she, "there is 
nothing but frothy, vain discourse, which 
is far different from theirs. Theirs was 
to edification, and to build one another 
up in faith; so that they were not as we 
are, nor are we as they were; but," said 
she, "we might do as they did. There [190 
was a hearty friendship among them; but 



where is it now to be foimd?" Says 
Mrs. Bargrave, "'Tis hard indeed to find 
a true friend in these days." Says Mrs. 
Veal, "Mr. Norris has a fine copy of 
verses, called 'Friendship in Perfection,' 
which I wonderfully admire. Have you 
seen the book?" says Mrs. Veal. "No," 
says Mrs. Bargrave, "but I have the 
verses of my own writing out." [200 
"Have you?" says Mrs. Veal; "then 
fetch them." Which she did from above- 
stairs, and offered them to Mrs. Veal to 
read, who refused, and waived the thing, 
saying holding down her head would 
make it ache; and then desired Mrs. 
Bargrave to read them to her, which she 
did. As they were admiring "Friend- 
ship" Mrs. Veal said, "Dear Mrs. Bar- 
grave, I shall love you for ever." In [210 
these verses there is twice used the word 
Elysian. "Ah!" says Mrs. Veal, "these 
poets have such names for heaven!" She 
would often draw her hand across her 
own eyes and say, "Mrs. Bargrave, don't 
you think I am mightily impaired by my 
fits?" "No," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I 
think you look as well as ever I knew 
you." 

After all this discourse, which theap- [220 
parition put in words much finer than 
Mrs. Bargrave said she could pretend to, 
and was much more than she can re- 
member, for it cannot be thought that 
an hour and three-quarters' conversation 
could all be retained, though the main 
of it she thinks she does, she said to Mrs. 
Bargrave she would have her write a 
letter to her brother, and tell him she 
would have him give rings to such and [230 
such, and that there was a purse of gold 
in her cabinet, and that she would have 
two broad pieces given to her cousin 
Watson. 

Talking at this rate, Mrs. Bargrave 
thought that a fit was coming upon her, 
and so placed herself in a chair just be- 
fore her knees, to keep her from falling 
to the ground, if her fits should occasion 
it (for the elbow-chair, she thought, [240 
would keep her from falling on either 
side); and to divert Mrs. Veal, as she 
thought, took hold of her gown-sleeve 
several times and commended it. Mrs. 
Veal told her it was a scoured silk, and 



2 24 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



newly made up. But for all this, Mrs. 
Veal persisted in her request, and told 
Mrs. Bargrave she must not deny her; 
and that she would have her tell her 
brother all their conversation when [250 
she had an opportunity. ''Dear Mrs. 
Veal," said Mrs. Bargrave, "this seems 
so impertinent that I cannot tell how to 
comply with it; and what a mortifying 
story will our conversation be to a young 
gentleman!" "Well," says Mrs. Veal, 
"I must not be denied." "Why," says 
Mrs. Bargrave, "'tis much better, me- 
thinks, to do it yourself." "No," says 
Mrs. Veal, "though it seems imperti- [260 
nent to you now, you will see more reason 
for it hereafter." Mrs. Bargrave then, 
to satisfy her importunity, was going 
to fetch a pen and ink, but Mrs. Veal 
said, "Let it alone now, but do it when I 
am gone; but you must be sure to do it;" 
which was one of the last things she en- 
joined her at parting; and so she promised 
her. 

Then Mrs. Veal asked for Mrs. [270 
Bargrave's daughter. She said she was 
not at home, "but if you have a mind to 
see her," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I'll send 
for her." "Do," says Mrs. Veal. On 
which she left her, and went to a neigh- 
bor's to send for her; and by the time 
Mrs. Bargrave was returning, Mrs. Veal 
was got without the door in the street, in 
the face of the beast-market, on a Satur- 
day (which is market-day) , and stood [280 
ready to part as soon as Mrs. Bargrave 
came to her. She asked her why she was 
in such haste. She said she must be 
going, though perhaps she might not go 
her journey until Monday; and told Mrs. 
Bargrave she hoped she should see her 
again at her cousin Watson's before she 
went whither she was a-going. Then 
she said she would take her leave of her, 
and walked" from Mrs. Bargrave in [2^0 
her view, till a turning interrupted the 
sight of her, which was three-quarters 
after one in the afternoon. 

Mrs. Veal died the 7th of September, 
at twelve o'clock at noon, of her fits, and 
had not above four hours' senses before 
death, in which time she received the sacra- 
ment. The next day after Mrs. Veal's 
appearing, being Sunday, Mrs. Bargrave 



was mightily indisposed with a cold [300 
and a sore throat, that she could not 
go out that day; but on Monday morn- 
ing she sends a person to Captain Wat- 
son's to know if Mrs. Veal was there. 
They wondered at Mrs. Bargrave's in- 
quiry, and sent her word that she was 
not there, nor was expected. At this 
answer, Mrs. Bargrave told the maid she 
had certainly mistook the name or made 
some blunder. And though she was ill, [310 
she put on her hood, and went herself 
to Captain Watson's, though she knew 
none of the family, to see if Mrs. Veal 
was there or not. They said they won- 
dered at her asking, for that she had not 
been in town; they were sure, if she had, 
she would have been there. Says Mrs. 
Bargrave, "I am sure she was with me 
on Saturday almost two hours." They 
said it was impossible; for they must [320 
have seen her, if she had. In comes 
Captain Watson while they are in dispute, 
and said that Mrs. Veal was certainly 
dead, and her escutcheons were making. 
This strangely surprised Mrs. Bargrave, 
who went to the person immediately who 
had the care of them, and found it true. 
Then she related the whole story to Cap- 
tain Watson's family, and what gown she 
had on, and how striped, and that [330 
Mrs. Veal told her it was scoured. Then 
Mrs. Watson cried out, "You have seen 
her indeed, for none knew but Mrs. Veal 
and myself that the gown was scoured." 
And Mrs. Watson owned that she de- 
scribed the gown exactly; "for," said she, 
"I helped her to make it up." This Mrs. 
Watson blazed all about the town, and 
avouched the demonstration of the truth 
of Mrs. Bargrave's seeing Mrs. Veal's [340 
apparition; and Captain Watson carried 
two gentlemen immediately to Mrs. 
Bargrave's house to hear the relation 
from her own mouth. And then it spread 
so fast that gentlemen and persons 
of quality, the judicious and sceptical 
part of the world, flocked in upon her, 
Avhich at last became such a task that she 
was forced to go out of the way; for they 
were in general extremely satisfied of [350 
the truth of the thing, and plainly saw 
that Mrs. Bargrave was no hypochondriac, 
for she always appears with such a cheer- 



DEFOE 



225 



ful air and pleasing mien, that she has 
gained the favor and esteem of all the 
gentry, and 'tis thought a great favor if 
they can but get the relation from her 
own mouth. I should have told you before 
that Mrs. Veal told Mrs. Bargrave that 
her sister and brother-in-law were [360 
just come down from London to see her. 
Says Mrs. Bargrave, "How came you to 
order matters so strangely?" "It could 
not be helped," says Mrs. Veal. And 
her sister and brother did come to see 
her, and entered the town of Dover just 
as Mrs. Veal was expiring. Mrs. Bar- 
grave asked her whether she would drink 
some tea. Says Mrs. Veal, "I do not care 
if I do; but I'll warrant this mad fel- [370 
low" (meaning Mrs. Bargrave's husband) 
"has broke all your trinkets." "But," 
says Mrs. Bargrave, "I'll get some- 
thing to drink in for all that." But 
Mrs. Veal waived it, and said, "It is no 
matter; let it alone;" and so it passed. 

All the time I sat with Mrs. Bargrave, 
which was some hours, she recollected fresh 
sayings of Mrs. Veal. And one material 
thing more she told Mrs. Bargrave — [380 
that old Mr. Breton allowed Mrs. Veal 
ten pounds a year, which was a secret, 
and unknown to Mrs. Bargrave till Mrs. 
Veal told it her. Mrs. Bargrave never 
varies in her story, which puzzles those 
who doubt of the truth or are unwilling 
to believe it. A servant in a neighbor's 
yard adjoining to Mrs. Bargrave's house 
heard her talking to somebody an hour 
of the time Mrs. Veal was with her. [390 
Mrs. Bargrave went out to her next 
neighbor's the very moment she parted 
with Mrs. Veal, and told what ravishing 
conversation she had with an old friend, 
and told the whole of it. Drelincourt's 
"Book of Death" is, since this happened, 
bought up strangely. And it is to be 
observed that, notwithstanding all this 
trouble and fatigue Mrs. Bargrave has 
undergone upon this account, she [400 
never took the value of a farthing, nor 
suffered her daughter to take anything 
of anybody, and therefore can have no 
interest in telling the story. 

But Mr. Veal does what he can to 
stifle the matter, and said he would see 
Mrs. Bargrave; but yet it is certain matter 



of fact that he has been at Captain Wat- 
son's since the death of his sister, and 
yet never went near Mrs. Bargrave; [410 
and some of his friends report her to be a 
great liar, and that she knew of Mr. 
Breton's ten pounds a year. But the 
person who pretends to say so has the 
reputation of a notorious liar among 
persons whom I know to be of undoubted 
repute. Now, Mr. Veal is more a gentle- 
man than to say she lies, but says a bad 
husband has crazed her; but she needs 
only to present herself and it will [420 
effectually confute that pretence. Mr. 
Veal says he asked his sister on her death- 
bed whether she had a mind to dispose of 
anything, and she said no. Now, the 
things which Mrs. Veal's apparition would 
have disposed of were so trifling, and 
nothing of justice aimed at in their dis- 
posal, that the design of it appears to me 
to be only in order to make Mrs. Bargrave 
so to demonstrate the truth of her [430 
appearance, as to satisfy the world of the 
reality thereof as to what she had seen 
and heard, and to secure her reputation 
among the reasonable and understanding 
part of mankind. And then again Mr. 
Veal owns that there was a purse of gold; 
but it was not found in her cabinet, but 
in a comb-box. This looks improbable; 
for that Mrs. Watson owned that Mrs. 
Veal was so very careful of the key [440 
of her cabinet that she would trust no- 
body with it; and if so, no doubt she 
would not trust her gold out of it. And 
Mrs. Veal's often drawing her hand over 
her eyes, and asking Mrs. Bargrave 
whether her fits had not impaired her, 
looks to me as if she did it on purpose 
to remind Mrs. Bargrave of her fits, to 
prepare her not to think it strange that 
she should put her upon wTiting to [450 
her brother to dispose of rings and gold, 
which looks so much like a dying person's 
request; and it took accordingly with 
Mrs. Bargrave, as the effects of her fits 
coming upon her; and was one of the 
many instances of her wonderful love to 
her and care of her that she should not 
be affrighted; which indeed appears in 
her whole management, particularly in her 
coming to her in the daytime, waiv- [460 
ing the salutation, and when she was 



226 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



alone; and then the manner of her parting 
to prevent a second attempt to salute her. 

Now, why Mr. Veal should think this 
relation a reflection (as 'tis plain he does 
by his endeavoring to stifle it), I can't 
imagine, because the generality believe 
her to be a good spirit, her discourse was 
so heavenly. Her two great errands were 
to comfort Mrs. Bargrave in her [470 
affliction, and to ask her forgiveness for 
her breach of friendship, and with a pious 
discourse to encourage her. So that after 
all to suppose that Mrs. Bargrave could 
hatch such an invention as this from 
Friday noon till Saturday noon (suppos- 
ing that she knew of Mrs. Veal's death 
the very first moment) without jumbling 
circumstances, and without any interest 
too, she must be more witty, for- [480 
tunate, and wicked too, than any indiffer- 
ent person, I dare say, will allow. I 
asked Mrs. Bargrave several times if she 
was sure she felt the gown. She answered 
modestly, "If my senses are to be relied 
on, I am sure of it." I asked her if she 
heard a sound when she clapped her 
hands upon her knee. She said she did 
not remember she did, and she said, "She 
appeared to be as much a substance [490 
as I did, who talked with her; and I may," 
said she, "be as soon persuaded that your 
apparition is talking to me now as that 
I did not really see her; for I was under 
no manner of fear; I received her as a 
friend, and parted with her as such. I 
would not," says she, "give one farthing 
to make any one believe it; I have no 
interest in it. Nothing but trouble is 
entailed upon me for a long time, for [500 
aught I know; and had it not come to 
light by accident, it would never have 
been made public." But now she says 
she will make her own private use of it, 
and keep herself out of the way as much 
as she can; and so she has done since. 
She says she had a gentleman who came 
thirty miles to her to hear the relation, 
and that she had told it to a roomfull of 
people at a time. Several particular [510 
gentlemen have had the story from Mrs. 
Bargrave's own mouth. 

This thing has very much affected me, 
and I am as well satisfied as I am of the 
best grounded matter of fact. And why 



we should dispute matter of fact because 
we cannot solve things of which we have 
no certain or demonstrative notions, 
seems strange to me. Mrs. Bargrave's 
authority and sincerity alone would [520 
have been undoubted in any other case. 



JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745) 

From THE TALE OF A TUB 

The Author's Preface 

The wits of the present age being so 
very numerous and penetrating, it seems 
the grandees of church and state begin to 
fall under horrible apprehensions lest 
these gentlemen, during the intervals of 
a long peace, should find leisure to pick 
holes in the weak sides of religion and 
government. To prevent which, there 
has been much thought employed of late 
upon certain projects for taking off [10 
the force and edge of those formidable 
inquirers from canvassing and reasoning 
upon such delicate points. They have at 
length fixed upon one which will require 
some time as well as cost to perfect. 
Meanwhile, the danger hourly increasing 
by new levies of wits, all appointed (as 
there is reason to fear) with pen, ink, 
and paper, which may at an hour's warn- 
ing be drawn out into pamphlets and [20 
other offensive weapons, ready for im- 
mediate execution, it was judged of ab- 
solute necessity that some present expedi- 
ent be thought on, till the main design 
can be brought to maturity. To this 
end, at a grand committee some days 
ago, this important discovery was made 
by a certain curious and refined observer: 
— that seamen have a custom, when 
they meet a whale, to fling him an [30 
empty tub by way of amusement, to di- 
vert him from laying violent hands upon 
the ship. This parable was immediately 
mythologised; the whale was interpreted 
to be Hobbes's Leviathan, which tosses 
and plays with all schemes of religion 
and government, whereof a great many 
are hollow, and dry, and empty, and 
noisy, and wooden, and given to rotation: 
this is the leviathan whence the ter- [40 



SWIFT 



227 



rible wits of our age are said to borrow 
their weapons. The ship in danger is 
easily understood to be its old antitype, 
the commonwealth. But how to analyze 
the tub, was a matter of difficulty; when 
after long inquiry and debate, the literal 
meaning was preserved; and it was de- 
creed, that in order to prevent these 
leviathans from tossing and sporting with 
the commonwealth, which of itself [50 
is too apt to fluctuate, they should be 
diverted from that game by a Tale of a 
Tub. And, my genius being conceived 
to lie not unhappily that way, I had the 
honor done me to be engaged in the 
performance. ... 

Section II 

Once upon a time there was a man 
who had three sons by one wife, and all 
at a birth, neither could the midwife tell 
certainly which was the eldest. Their 
father died while they were young; and 
upon his death-bed, calHng the lads to 
him, spoke thus: — 

"Sons, because I have purchased no 
estate, nor was born to any, I have long 
considered of some good legacies to [10 
bequeath you; and at last, with much 
care, as well as expense, have provided 
each of you (here they are) a new coat. 
Now, you are to understand that these 
coats have two virtues contained in them ; 
one is, that with good wearing they will 
last you fresh and sound as long as you 
live; the other is, that they wall grow in 
the same proportion with your bodies, 
lengthening and widening of them- [20 
selves, so as to be always fit. Here; let me 
see them on you before I die. So; very 
well; pray, children, wear them clean, 
and brush them often. You will find in 
my will (here it is) full instructions in 
every particular concerning the w^earing 
and management of your coats; wherein 
you must be very exact, to avoid the penal- 
ties I have appointed for every trans- 
gression or neglect, upon which your [30 
future fortunes will entirely depend. I 
have also commanded in my will that 
you should live together in one house like 
brethren and friends, for then you will 
be sure to thrive, and not otherwise." 



Here, the story says, this good father 
died, and the three sons went all together 
to seek their fortunes. 

I shall not trouble you with recounting 
what adventures they met for the [40 
first seven years, any farther than by 
taking notice that they carefully ob- 
served their father's will, and kept their 
coats in very good order: that they 
travelled through several countries, en- 
countered a reasonable quantity of giants, 
and slew certain dragons. 

Being now arrived at the proper age 
for producing themselves, they came up 
to town, and fell in love with the ladies, [50 
but especially three, who about that time 
were in chief reputation: the Duchess 
d'Argent, Madame de Grands Titres, 
and the Countess d'Orgueil. On their 
first appearance our three adventurers 
met with a very bad reception; and soon 
with great sagacity guessing out the 
reason, they quickly began to improve in 
the good qualities of the town; they writ, 
and rallied, and rhymed, and sung, [60 
and said, and said nothing; . . . they 
killed bailiffs, kicked fiddlers down stairs, 
eat at Locket's, loitered at Will's; they 
talked of the drawing-room, and never 
came there; dined with lords they never 
saw- whispered a duchess, and spoke 
never a w^ord; exposed the scrawls of their 
laundress for billets-doux of quality ; came 
ever just from court, and were never seen 
in it; attended the levee sub dio; got [70 
a list of peers by heart in one company, 
and with great familiarity retailed them 
in another. Above all, they constantly 
attended those committees of senators 
who are silent in the house and loud in 
the coffee-house; where they nightly ad- 
journ to chew the cud of politics, and are 
encompassed with a ring of disciples, 
who lie in wait to catch up their 
droppings. The three brothers had ac- [80 
quired forty other qualifications of the 
like stamp, too tedious to recount, and 
by consequence were justly reckoned the 
most accomplished persons in the town; 
but all would not suffice, and the ladies 
aforesaid continued still inflexible. To 
clear up which difficulty I must, with the 
reader's good leave and patience, have 
recourse to some points of weight. 



228 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



which the authors of that age have not [90 
sufficiently illustrated. 

For about this time it happened a sect 
arose whose tenets obtained and spread 
very far, especially in the grande monde, 
and among everybody of good fashion. 
They worshipped a sort of idol, who, as 
their doctrine delivered, did daily create 
men by a kind of manufactory operation. 
This idol they placed in the highest parts 
of the house, on an altar erected [100 
about three foot; he was shown in the 
posture of a Persian emperor, sitting on 
a superficies, with his legs interwoven 
under him. . . . 

The worshippers of this deity had also 
a system of their belief, which seemed 
to turn upon the following fundamentals. 
They held the universe to be a large suit 
of clothes, which invests everything; that 
the earth is invested by the air; the [no 
air is invested by the stars; and the stars 
are invested by the primum mobile. Look 
on this globe of earth, you will find it to 
be a very complete and fashionable dress. 
What is that which some call land but a 
fine coat faced with green? or the sea, 
but a waistcoat of water-tabby? Proceed 
to the particular works of the creation, 
you will find how curious journeyman Na- 
ture has been to trim up the vegetable [120 
beaux; observe how sparkish a periwig 
adorns the head of a beech, and what a 
fine doublet of white satin is worn by the 
birch. To conclude from all, what is man 
himself but a microcoat, or rather a com- 
plete suit of clothes with all its trimmings? 
As to his body there can be no dispute; 
but examine even the acquirements of his 
mind, you will find thern all contribute in 
their order towards furnishing out an [130 
exact dress: to instance no more; is not 
religion a cloak, honesty a pair of shoes 
worn out in the dirt, self-love a surtout, 
vanity a shirt, and conscience a pair of 
breeches? . . . 

These opinions, therefore, were so uni- 
versal, as well as the practices of them, 
among the refined part of court and town, 
that our three brother adventurers, as 
their circumstances then stood, were [140 
strangely at a loss. For, on the one 
side, the three ladies they addressed 
themselves to, whom we have named 



already, were at the very top of the fash- 
ion, and abhorred all that were below it 
but the breadth of a hair. On the other 
side, their father's will was very precise; 
and it was the main precept in it, with 
the greatest penalties annexed, not to add 
to or diminish from their coats one [150 
thread, without a positive command in 
the will. Now, the coats their father 
had left them were, 'tis true, of very good 
cloth, and besides so neatly sewn, you 
would swear they were all of a piece; but 
at the same time very plain, and with 
Httle or no ornament: and it happened 
that before they were a month in town 
great shoulder-knots came up ; straight all 
the world was shoulder-knots. ... [160 
That fellow, cries one, has no soul; where 
is his shoulder-knot? Our three brethren 
soon discovered their want by sad £x- 
perience, meeting in their walks with 
forty mortifications and indignities. If 
they went to the playhouse the door- 
keeper showed them into the twelve- 
penny gallery; if they called a boat, says 
a waterman, "I am first sculler"; if 
they stepped to the Rose to take a [170 
bottle, the drawer would cry, "Friend, 
we sell no ale;" if they went to visit a 
lady, a footman met them at the door 
with "Pray send up your message." In 
this unhappy case they went immediately 
to consult their father's will, read it over 
and over, but not a word of the shoulder- 
knot. What should they do? — what tem- 
per should they find? — obedience was 
absolutely necessary, and yet shoulder- [180 
knots appeared extremely requisite. After 
much thought one of the brothers, who 
happened to be more book-learned than 
the other two, said he had found an ex- 
pedient. "'Tis true," said he, "there 
is nothing here in this will, totidem verbis, 
making mention of shoulder-knots: but 
I dare conjecture we may find them in- 
clusive, or totidem syllabis.''' This distinc- 
tion was immediately approved by [190 
all, and so they fell again to examine the 
will; but their evil star had so directed 
the matter that the first syllable was not 
to be found in the whole writing. Upon 
which disappointment, he who found the 
former evasion took heart, and said, 
"Brothers, there are yet hopes; for though 



SWIFT 



229 



we cannot find them totideni verbis, nor 
totidem syllahis, I dare engage we shall 
make them out tertio modo, or totidem [200 
Uteris. '^ This discovery was also highly 
commended, upon which they fell once 
more to the scrutiny, and picked out 
S, H, O, U, L, D, E, R; when the same 
planet, enemy to their repose, had won- 
derfully contrived that a K was not to be 
found. Here was a weighty difficulty! 
but the distinguishing brother, for whom 
we shall hereafter find a name, now 
his hand was in, proved by a very [210 
good argument that K was a modern, 
illegitimate letter, unknown to the learned 
ages, nor anywhere to be found in ancient 
manuscripts. '"Tis true," said he, 
" CalendcB hath in Q. V. C. been sometimes 
writ with a K, but erroneously; for in 
the best copies it is ever spelled with a C. 
And, by consequence, it was a gross 
mistake in our language to spell 'knot' 
with a K;" but that from hencefor- [220 
ward he would take care it should be 
writ with a C. Upon this all farther diffi- 
culty vanished — shoulder-knots were made 
clearly out to be jure paterno, and our 
three gentlemen swaggered with as large 
and as flaunting ones as the best. . . . 

The learned brother, so often men- 
tioned, was reckoned the best scholar in 
all that or the next street to it, insomuch 
as, having run something behindhand [230 
in the world, he obtained the favor of 
a certain lord to receive him into his 
house, and to teach his children. A while 
after the lord died, and he, by long prac- 
tice of his father's will, found the way of 
contriving a deed of conveyance of that 
house to himself and his heirs; upon which 
he took possession, turned the young 
squires out, and received his brothers in 
their stead. [240 

Section VI 

We left lord Peter in open rupture with 
his two brethren; both for ever discarded 
from his house, and resigned to the wide 
world, with little or nothing to trust to. 
Which are circumstances that render 
them proper subjects for the charity of a 
writer's pen to work on; scenes of misery 
ever affording the fairest harvest for 
great adventures. And in this the world 



may perceive the difference between [10 
the integrity of a generous author and 
that of a common friend. The latter is 
observed to adhere closely in prosperity, 
but on the decline of fortune to drop 
suddenly off. Whereas the generous 
author, just on the contrary, finds his 
hero on the dunghill, from thence by 
gradual steps raises him to a throne, 
and then immediately withdraws, ex- 
pecting not so much as thanks for [20 
his pains; in imitation of which example, 
I have placed lord Peter in a noble house, 
given him a title to wear and money to 
spend. There I shall leave him for some 
time; returning where common charity 
directs me, to the assistance of his two 
brothers at their lowest ebb. However, I 
shall by no means forget my character 
of an historian to follow the truth step by 
step, whatever happens, or wherever [30 
it may lead me. 

The two exiles, so nearly united in for- 
tune and interest, took a lodging together; 
where, at their first leisure, they began 
to reflect on the numberless misfortunes 
and vexations of their life past, and could 
not tell on the sudden to what failure in 
their conduct they ought to impute them ; 
when, after some recollection, they called 
to mind the copy of their father's will, [40 
which they had so happily recovered. 
This was immediately produced, and a 
firm resolution taken between them to 
alter whatever was already amiss, and 
reduce all their future measures to the 
strictest obedience prescribed therein. 
The main body of the will (as the reader 
cannot easily have forgot) consisted in 
certain admirable rules about the wearing 
of their coats; in the perusal whereof, [50 
the two brothers at every period duly 
comparing the doctrine with the practice, 
there was never seen a wider difference 
between two things; horrible downright 
transgressions of every point. Upon 
which they both resolved, without farther 
delay, to fall immediately upon reducing 
the whole exactly after their father's 
model. 

But here it is good to stop the hasty [60 
reader, ever impatient to see the end of an 
adventure before we writers can duly 
prepare him for it. I am to record that 



230 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



these two brothers began to be distin- 
guished at this time by certain names. 
One of them desired to be called MARTIN, 
and the other took the appellation of 
JACK. These two had lived in much 
friendship and agreement under the tyr- 
anny of their brother Peter, as it is [70 
the talent of fellow-sufiferers to do; men 
in misfortune being like men in the dark, 
to whom all colors are the same: but when 
they came forward into the world, and 
began to display themselves to each 
other and to the light, their complexions 
appeared extremely different; which the 
present posture of their affairs gave them 
sudden opportunity to discover. 

But here the severe reader may [80 
justly tax me as a writer of short memory, 
a deficiency to which a true modern can- 
not but of necessity be a little sub- 
ject. ... I ought in method to have 
informed the reader, about fifty pages 
ago, of a fancy lord Peter took, and in- 
fused into his brothers, to wear on their 
coats whatever trimmings came up in 
fashion; never pulling off any as they went 
out of the mode, but keeping on all [90 
together, which amounted in time to a 
medley the most antic you can possibly 
conceive; and this to a degree, that upon 
the time of their falling out there was 
hardly a thread of the original coat to be 
seen; but an infinite quantity of lace, and 
ribbons, and fringe, and embroidery, and 
points; I mean only those tagged with 
silver, for the rest fell off. Now this 
material circumstance, having been [100 
forgot in due place, as good fortune hath 
ordered, comes in very properly here 
when the two brothers are just going to 
reform their vestures into the primitive 
state prescribed by their father's will. 

They both unanimously entered upon 
this great work, looking sometimes on 
their coats, and sometimes on the will. 
Martin laid the first hand; at one twitch 
brought off a large handful of points; [no 
and, with a second pull, stripped away 
ten dozen yards of fringe. But when he 
had gone thus far he demurred a while: 
he knew very well there yet remained a 
great deal more to be done; however, the 
first heat being over, his violence began to 
cool, and he resolved to proceed more mod- 



erately in the rest of the work, having al- 
ready narrowly escaped a swinging rent, in 
pulling off the points, which, being [120 
tagged with silver (as we have observed 
before), the judicious workman had, with 
much sagacity, double sewn, to preserve 
them from falling. Resolving therefore to 
rid his coat of a huge quantity of gold lace, 
he picked up the stitches with much cau- 
tion, and diligently gleaned out all the 
loose threads as he went, which proved 
to be a work of time. Then he fell about 
the embroidered Indian figures of [130 
men, women, and children; against which, 
as you have heard in its due place, their 
father's testament was extremely exact 
and severe: these, with much dexterity and 
application, were, after a while, quite 
eradicated or utterly defaced. For the 
rest, where he observed the embroidery 
to be worked so close as not to be got 
away without damaging the cloth, or 
where it served to hide or strengthen [140 
any flaw in the body of the coat, con- 
tracted by the perpetual tampering of 
workmen upon it, he concluded the wisest 
course was to let it remain, resolving in 
no case whatsoever that the substance of 
the stuff should suffer injury; which he 
thought the best method for serving the 
true intent and meaning of his father's 
will. And this is the nearest account I 
have been able to collect of Martin's [150 
proceedings upon this great revolution. 

But his brother Jack, whose adven- 
tures will be so extraordinary as to furnish 
a great part in the remainder of this dis- 
course, entered upon the matter with 
other thoughts and a quite different spirit. 
For the memory of lord Peter's injuries 
produced a degree of hatred and spite 
which had a much greater share of in- 
citing him than any regards after his [160 
father's commands; since these appeared, 
at best, only secondary and subservient 
to the other. However, for this medley 
of humor he made a shift to find a very 
plausible name, honoring it with the title 
of zeal; which is perhaps the most signif- 
icant word that has been ever yet pro- 
duced in any language, as I think I have 
fully proved in my excellent analytical dis- 
course upon that subject; wherein I [170 
have deduced a histori-theo-physi-logical 



SWIFT 



231 



account of zeal, showing how it first 
proceeded from a notion into a word, and 
thence, in a hot summer, ripened into a 
tangible substance. This work, containing 
three large volumes in folio, I design very 
shortly to publish by the modern way of 
subscription, not doubting but the no- 
bility and gentry of the land will give me 
all possible encouragement; having [180 
had already such a taste of what I am 
able to perform. 

I record, therefore, that brother Jack, 
brimful of this miraculous compound, 
reflecting with indignation upon Peter's 
tyranny, and farther provoked by the 
despondency of Martin, prefaced his 
resolutions to this purpose. "What," 
said he, "a rogue that locked up his drink, 
turned away our wives, cheated us [190 
of our fortunes ; palmed his damned crusts 
upon us for mutton; and at last kicked us 
out of doors; m.ust we be in his fashions, 
with a pox? A rascal, besides, that all 
the street cries out against." Having 
thus kindled and inflamed himself as high 
as possible, and by consequence in a 
delicate temper for beginning a reforma- 
tion, he set about the work immediately; 
and in three minutes made more [200 
despatch than Martin had done in as 
many hours. For, courteous reader, 
you are given to understand that zeal is 
never so highly obliged as when you set 
it a-tearing; and Jack, who doted on that 
quality in himself, allowed it at this time 
its full swing. Thus it happened that, 
stripping down a parcel of gold lace a 
little too hastily, he rent the main body 
of his coat from top to bottom; and [210 
whereas his talent was not of the happiest 
in taking up a stitch, he knew no better 
way than to darn it again with packthread 
and a skewer. But the matter was yet 
infinitely worse (I record it \vith tears) 
when he proceeded to the embroidery: for, 
being clumsy by nature, and of temper 
impatient; withal, beholding millions of 
stitches that required the nicest hand and 
sedatest constitution to extricate, in [220 
a great rage he tore off the whole piece, 
cloth and all, and flung them into the 
kennel, and furiously thus continuing his 
career: "Ah, good brother Martin," said 
he, "do as I do, for the love of God; strip. 



tear, pull, rend, flay oft" afl, that we may 
appear as unlike the rogue Peter as it is 
possible; I would not for a hundred pounds 
carry the least mark about me that 
might give occasion to the neighbors [230 
of suspecting that I was related to such 
a rascal." But Martin, who at this time 
happened to be extremely phlegmatic 
and sedate, begged his brother, of all 
love, not to damage his coat by any 
means; for he never would get such an- 
other: desired him to consider that it was 
not their business to form their actions 
by any reflection upon Peter, but by ob- 
serving the rules prescribed in their [240 
father's will. That he should remember 
Peter was still their brother, whatever 
faults or injuries he had committed; and 
therefore they should by all means avoid 
such a thought as that of taking meas- 
ures for good and evil from no other rule 
than of opposition to him. That it was 
true, the testament of their good father 
was very exact in what related to the wear- 
ing of their coats; yet it was no less [250 
penal and strict in prescribing agreement, 
and friendship, and affection between 
them. And therefore, if straining a point 
were at all dispensable, it would certainly 
be so rather to the advance of unity than 
increase of contradiction. . . . 



A MODEST PROPOSAL 

FOR PREVENTING THE CHILDREN OF POOR 
PEOPLE IN IRELAND FROM BEING A BUR- 
DEN TO THEIR PARENTS OR COUNTRY, 
AND FOR MAKING THEM BENEFICIAL TO 
THE PUBLIC 

It is a melancholy object to those who 
walk through this great town or travel 
in the country, when they see the streets, 
the roads, and cabin doors, crowded with 
beggars of the female sex, followed by 
three, four, or six children, all in rags 
and importuning every passenger for an 
alms. These mothers, instead of being 
able to work for their honest Hvelihood, 
are forced to employ all their time in [10 
strolling to beg sustenance for their help- 
less infants: who as they grow up either 
turn thieves for want of work, or leave 
their dear native country to fight for the 



232 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to 
the Barbadoes. 

I think it is agreed by all parties that 
this prodigious number of children in 
the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels 
of their mothers, and frequently of [20 
their fathers, is in the present deplorable 
state of the kingdom a very great addi- 
tional grievance; and, therefore, whoever 
could find out a fair, cheap, and easy 
method of making these children sound, 
useful members of the commonwealth, 
would deserve so well of the public as to 
have his statue set up for a preserver of 
the nation. 

But my intention is very far from be- [30 
ing confined to provide only for the chil- 
dren of professed beggars; it is of a much 
greater extent, and shall take in the 
whole number of infants at a certain age 
who are born of parents in effect as little 
able to support them as those who de- 
mand our charity in the streets. 

As to my own part, having turned my 
thoughts for many years upon this im- 
portant subject, and maturely weighed [40 
the several schemes of other projectors, 
I have always found them grossly mis- 
taken in the computation. It is true, a 
child just born may be supported by its 
mother's milk for a solar year, with little 
other nourishment; at most not above the 
value of 2s., which the mother may 
certainly get, or the value in scraps, by 
her lawful occupation of begging; and 
it is exactly at one year old that I [50 
propose to provide for then! in such a 
manner as instead of being a charge upon 
their parents or the parish, or wanting 
food and raiment for the rest of their 
lives, they shall on the contrary con- 
tribute to the feeding, and partly to the 
clothing, of many thousands. . . . 

The number of souls in this kingdom 
being usually reckoned one million and 
a half, of these I calculate there may [60 
be about two hundred thousand couple 
whose wives are breeders; from which 
number I subtract thirty thousand couples 
who are able to maintain their own chil- 
dren, although I apprehend there cannot 
be so many, under the present distresses 
of the kingdom; but this being granted, 
there will remain an hundred and sev- 



enty thousand breeders. I again subtract 
fifty thousand for those women . . . [70 
whose children die by accident or dis- 
ease within the year. There only remains 
one hundred and twenty thousand chil- 
dren of poor parents annually born. 
The question therefore is, how this num- 
ber shall be reared and provided for, 
which, as I have already said, under the 
present situation of affairs, is utterly 
impossible by all the methods hitherto 
proposed. For we can neither employ [80 
them in handicraft or agriculture; we 
neither build houses (I mean in the coun- 
try) nor " cultivate land: they can very 
seldom pick up a livelihood by stealing, 
till they arrive at six years old, except 
where they are of towardly parts; although 
I confess they learn the rudiments much 
earlier, during wliich time, they can how- 
ever be properly looked upon only as 
probationers, as I have been informed [90 
by a principal gentleman in the county of 
Cavan, who protested to me that he never 
knew above one or two instances under 
the age of six, even in a part of the king- 
dom so renowned for the quickest pro- 
ficiency in that art. 

I am assured by our merchants, that a 
boy or a girl before twelve years old is 
no salable commodity; and even when 
they come to this age they will not [100 
yield above three pounds, or three pounds 
and half-a-crown at most on the exchange ; 
which cannot turn to account either to 
the parents or kingdom, the charge of 
nutriment and rags having been at least 
four times that value. 

I shall now therefore humbly propose 
my own thoughts, which I hope will not 
be liable to the least objection. 

I have been assured by a very [no 
knowing American of my acquaintance 
in London, that a young healthy child 
well nursed is at a year old a most deli- 
cious, nourishing, and wholesome food, 
whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; 
and I make no doubt that it will equally 
serve in a fricassee or a ragout. . . . 
A child will make two dishes at an enter- 
tainment for friends; and when the family 
dines alone, the fore or hind quarter [120 
will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned 
with a little pepper or salt will be very 



SWIFT 



233 



good boiled on the fourth day, especially 
in winter. 

I have reckoned upon a medium that a 
child just born will weigh 12 pounds, 
and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, 
increaseth to 28 pounds. 

I grant this food will be somewhat 
dear, and therefore very proper for [130 
landlords, who, as they have already de- 
voured most of the parents, seem to have 
the best title to the children. . . . 

I have already computed the charge of 
nursing a beggar's child (in which hst 
I reckon all cottagers, laborers, and four- 
fifths of the farmers) to be about two 
shillings per anmun, rags included; and 
I believe no gentleman would repine to 
give ten shillings for the carcass of a [140 
good fat child, which, as I have said, will 
make four dishes of excellent nutritive 
meat, when he hath only some particular 
friend or his own family to dine with 
him. Thus the squire will learn to be a 
good landlord, and grow popular among 
his tenants; the mother will have eight 
shillings net profit, and be fit for work 
till she produces another child. 

Those who are more thrifty (as I [150 
must confess the times require) may flay 
the carcass ; the skin of which artificially 
dressed will make admirable gloves for 
ladies, and summer boots for fine gentle- 
men. 

As to our city of Dublin, shambles may 
be appointed for this purpose in the most 
convenient parts of it, and butchers we 
may be assured will not be wanting; al- 
though I rather recommend buying [160 
the children alive than dressing them hot 
from the knife as we do roasting pigs. 

A very worthy person, a true lover of 
his country, and whose virtues I highly 
esteem, was lately pleased in discoursing 
on this matter to offer a refinement upon 
my scheme. He said that many gentle- 
men of this kingdom, having of late de- 
stroyed their deer, he conceived that the 
want of venison might be well sup- [170 
plied by the bodies of young lads and 
maidens, not exceeding fourteen years 
of age nor under twelve; so great a number 
of both sexes in every country being now 
ready to starve for want of work and 
service; and these to be disposed of by 



their parents, if alive, or otherwise by 
their nearest relations. But with due 
deference to so excellent a friend and so 
deserving a patriot, I cannot be al- [180 
together in his sentiments; for as to the 
males, my American acquaintance assured 
me, from frequent experience, that their 
flesh was generally tough and lean, hke 
that of our school-boys, by continual 
exercise, and their taste disagreeable; and 
to fatten them would not answer the 
charge. . . . And besides, it is not 
improbable that some scrupulous people 
might be apt to censure such a prac- [190 
tice (although indeed very unjustly), as 
a little bordering upon cruelty; which, I 
confess, hath always been with me the 
strongest objection against any project, 
however so well intended. 

But in order to justify my friend, he 
confessed that this expedient was put 
in1,o his head by the famous Psalmanazar, 
a native of the island Formosa, who came 
from thence to London above twenty [200 
years ago, and in conversation told my 
friend, that in his country when any 
young person happened to be put to death, 
the executioner sold the carcass to per- 
sons of quaHty as a prime dainty; and 
that in his time the body of a plump girl 
of fifteen, who was crucified for an at- 
tempt to poison the emperor, was sold 
to his imperial majesty's prime minister- 
of state, and other great mandarins of [210 
the court, in joints from the gibbet, at 
four hundred crowns. Neither indeed 
can I deny, that if the same use were 
made of several plump young girls in 
this town, who without one single groat 
to their fortunes cannot stir abroad 
without a chair, and appear at playhouse 
and assemblies in foreign fineries which 
they never will pay for, the kingdom 
would not be the worse. [220 

Some persons of a desponding spirit 
are in great concern about that vast 
number of poor people, who are aged, 
diseased, or maimed, and I have been 
desired to employ my thoughts what 
course may be taken to ease the nation 
of so grievous an encumbrance. But I 
am not in the least pain upon that matter, 
because it is very well known that they 
are every day dying and rotting by [230 



234 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



cold and famine, and filth and vermin, as 
fast as can be reasonably expected. And 
as to the young laborers, they are now 
in as hopeful a condition; they cannot get 
work, and consequently pine away for 
want of nourishment, to a degree that if 
at any time they are accidentally hired 
to common labor, they have not strength 
to perform it; and thus the country and 
themselves are happily delivered from [240 
the evils to come. 

I have too long digressed, and there- 
fore shall return to my subject. I think 
the advantages by the proposal which I 
have made are obvious and many, as well 
as of the highest importance. 

For first, as I have already observed, 
it would greatly lessen the number of 
papists, with whom we are yearly over- 
run, being the principal breeders of [250 
the nation as well as our most dangerous 
enemies; and who stay at home on pur- 
pose with a design to deliver the king- 
dom to the pretender, hoping to take 
their advantage by the absence of so 
many good protestants, who have chosen 
rather to leave their country than stay at 
home and pay tithes against their con- 
science to an episcopal curate. 

Secondly, the poorer tenants will [260 
have something valuable of their own, 
which by law may be made liable to dis- 
tress and help to pay their landlord's 
rent, their corn and cattle being already 
seized, and money a thing unknown. 

Thirdly, whereas the maintenance of 
an hundred thousand children, from two 
years old and upward, cannot be com- 
puted at less than ten shillings a-piece 
per annum, the nation's stock will be [270 
thereby increased fifty thousand pounds 
per annum, beside the profit of a new 
dish introduced to the tables of all gentle- 
men of fortune in the kingdom who have 
any refinement in taste. And the money 
will circulate among ourselves, the goods 
being entirely of our own growth and 
manufacture. 

Fourthly, the parents, beside the gain 
of eight shillings sterling per annum [280 
by the sale of their children, will be rid 
of the charge of maintaining them after 
the first year. 

Fifthly, this food would likewise bring 



great custom to taverns; where the vint- 
ners will certainly be so prudent as to 
procure the best receipts for dressing it 
to perfection, and consequently have 
their houses frequented by all the fine 
gentlemen, who justly value them- [290 
selves upon their knowledge in good eat- 
ing: and a skilful cook, who understands 
how to oblige his guests, will contrive to 
make it as expensive as they please. 

Sixthly, this would be a great induce- 
ment to marriage, which all wise nations 
have either encouraged by rewards or 
enforced by laws and penalties. It would 
increase the care and tenderness of mothers 
toward their children, when they [300 
were sure of a settlement for life to the 
poor babes, provided in some sort by the 
pubHc, to their annual profit instead of 
expense. We should see an honest emula- 
tion among the married women, which 
of them could bring the fattest child to 
the market. Men would become as fond 
of their wives during the time of their 
pregnancy as they are now of their mares 
in foal, their cows in calf, their sows [310 
when they are ready to farrow; nor offer 
to beat or kick them (as is too frequent a 
practice) for fear of a miscarriage. 

Many other advantages might be enu- 
merated. For instance, the addition of 
some thousand carcasses in our exporta- 
tion of barreled beef, the propagation of 
swine's flesh, and improvement in the 
art of making good bacon, so much wanted 
among us by the great destruction [320 
of pigs, too frequent at our tables; which 
are no way comparable in taste or mag- 
nificence to a well-grown, fat, yearling 
child, which roasted whole will make a 
considerable figure at a lord mayor's feast 
or any other pubHc entertainment. But 
this and many others I omit, being stu- 
dious of brevity. 

Supposing that one thousand families 
in this city would be constant cus- [330 
tomers for infant's flesh, beside others 
who might have it at merry-meetings, 
particularly weddings and christenings, 
I compute that Dublin would take off 
annually about twenty thousand car- 
casses ; and the rest of the kingdom (where 
probably they will be sold somewhat 
cheaper) the remaining eighty thousand. 



SWIFT 



235 



I can think of no one objection that 
will possibly be raised against this [340 
proposal, unless it should be urged that 
the number of people will be thereby 
much lessened in the kingdom. This I 
freely own, and was indeed one principal 
design in offering it to the world. I desire 
the reader will observe, that I calculate 
my remedy for this one individual king- 
dom of Ireland and for no other that 
ever was, is, or I think ever can be upon 
earth. Therefore let no man talk to [350 
me of other expedients: of taxing our ab- 
sentees at five shillings a pound; of using 
neither clothes nor household furniture 
except what is of our own growth and 
manufacture; of utterly rejecting the ma- 
terials and instruments that promote 
foreign luxury; of curing the expensive- 
ness of pride, vanity, idleness, and gam- 
ing in our women; of introducing a vein 
of parsimony, prudence, and tem- [360 
perance; of learning to love our country, 
wherein we differ even from Laplanders 
and the inhabitants of Topinamboo; of 
quitting our animosities and factions, nor 
act any longer like the Jews, who were 
murdering one another at the very mo- 
ment their city was taken; of being a 
little cautious not to sell our country 
and conscience for nothing; of teaching 
landlords to have at least one degree [370 
of mercy toward their tenants; lastly, of 
putting a spirit of honesty, industry, and 
skill into our shopkeepers; who, if a resolu- 
tion could now be taken to buy only our 
native goods, would immediately unite to 
cheat and exact upon us in the price, the 
measure, and the goodness, nor could 
ever yet be brought to make one fair pro- 
posal of just dealing, though often and 
earnestly invited to it. [380 

Therefore I repeat, let no man talk 
to me of these and the like expedients, till 
he hath at least some glimpse of hope that 
there will be ever some hearty and sincere 
attempt to put them in practice. 

But as to myself, having been wearied 
out for many years with offering vain, 
idle, visionary thoughts, and at length 
utterly despairing of success, I fortunately 
fell upon this proposal; which, as it [390 
is wholly new, so it hath something solid 
and real, of no expense and little trouble. 



full in our own power, and whereby we 
can incur no danger in disobliging Eng- 
land. For this kind of commodity will 
not bear exportation, the flesh being of 
too tender a consistence to admit a long 
continuance in salt, although perhaps I 
could name a country which would be 
glad to eat up our whole nation with- [400 
out it. 

After all, I am not so violently bent 
upon my own opinion as to reject any 
offer proposed by wise men, which shall 
be found equally innocent, cheap, easy, 
and effectual. But before something of 
that kind shall be advanced in contradic- 
tion to my scheme, and offering a better, 
I desire the author or authors will be 
pleased maturely to consider two [410 
points. First, as things now stand, how 
they will be able to find food and raiment 
for an hundred thousand useless mouths 
and backs. And secondly, there being a 
round million of creatures in human 
figure throughout this kingdom, whose 
whole subsistence put into a common 
stock would leave them in debt two mil- 
lions of pounds sterling, adding those 
who are beggars by profession to the [420 
bulk of farmers, cottagers, and laborers, 
with their wives and children who are 
beggars in effect: I desire those poHticians 
who dislike my overture, and may per- 
haps be so bold as to attempt an answer, 
that they will first ask the parents of these 
mortals, whether they would not at this 
day think it a great happiness to have 
been sold for food at a year old in the 
manner I prescribe, and thereby have [430 
avoided such a perpetual scene of mis- 
fortunes as they have since gone through 
by the oppression of landlords, the im- 
possibility of paying rent without money 
or trade, the want of common sustenance, 
with neither house nor clothes to cover 
them from the inclemencies of the weather, 
and the most inevitable prospect of 
entailing the like or greater miseries upon 
their breed for ever. [440 

I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, 
that I have not the least personal interest 
in endeavoring to promote this necessary 
work, having no other motive than the 
pubHc good of my country, by advancing 
our trade, providing for infants, relieving 



236 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



the poor, and giving some pleasure to 
the rich. I have no children by which 
I can propose to get a single penny; the 
youngest being nine years old, and [450 
my wife past child-bearing. 

From THE JOURNAL TO STELLA 

Sept. JO, I'/io. Have not I brought 
myself into a fine premunire to begin 
writing letters in whole sheets? and now 
I dare not leave it off. I can't tell whether 
you like these journal letters: I beheve 
they would be dull to me to read them 
over; but, perhaps, little MD is pleased to 
know how Presto passes his time in her 
absence. I always begin my last the 
same day I ended the former. I told [10 
you where I dined to-day at a tavern 
with Stratford: Lewis, who is a great 
favorite of Harley's, was to have been 
with us; but he was hurried to Hamp- 
ton Court, and sent his excuse, and that 
next Wednesday he would introduce me 
to Harley. 'Tis good to see what a la- 
mentable confession the Whigs all make 
me of my ill usage; but I mind them 
not. I am already represented to Har- [20 
ley as a discontented person, that was 
used ill for not being Whig enough; and 
I hope for good usage from him. The 
Tories dryly tell me, I may make my 
fortune, if I please; but I do not under- 
stand them, or rather, I do understand 
them. 

Oct. 4. After I had put out my candle 
last night, my landlady came into my 
room, with a servant of Lord Halifax, [30 
to desire I would go dine with him at his 
house near Hampton Court; but I sent 
him word I had business of great impor- 
tance that hindered me, etc. And, to-day, 
I was brought privately to Mr. Harley, 
who received me with the greatest respect 
and kindness imaginable : he has appointed 
me an hour on Saturday at four, after- 
noon, when I will open my business to 
him. [40 

Oct. 7. I wonder when this letter will 
be finished: it must go by Tuesday, that 
is certain; and if I have one from MD 
before, I will not answer it, that's as cer- 
tain too! 'Tis now morning, and I did 
not finish my papers for Mr. Harley last 



night; for you must understand Presto 
was sleepy, and made blunders and blots. 
Very pretty that I must be writing to 
young women in a morning fresh and [50 
fasting, faith. Well, good morrow to 
you : and so I go to business, and lay aside 

this paper till night, sirrahs. At 

night. Jack How told Harley, that if 
there were a lower place in hell than an- 
other, it was reserved for his porter, who 
tells lies so gravely, and with so civil a 
manner. This porter I have had to deal 
with, going this evening at four to visit 
Mr. Harley, by his own appointment. [60 
But the fellow told me no lie, though I 
suspected every word he said. He told 
me his master was just gone to dinner, 
with much company, and desired I would 
come an hour hence, which I did, expect- 
ing to hear Mr. Harley was gone out; but 
they had just done dinner. Mr. Harley 
came out to me, brought me in, and pre- 
sented me to his son-in-law. Lord Do- 
blane (or some such name), and his [70 
own son, and among others, Will Penn the 
Quaker: we sat two hours, drinking as 
good wine as you do; and two hours more 
he and I alone; where he heard me tell 
my business; asked for my powers, and 
read them; and read likewise a memorial 
I had drawn up, and put it in his pocket 
to show the Queen; told me the measures 
he would take; and, in short, said every- 
thing I could wish; told me he must [80 
bring Mr. St. John (Secretary of State) 
and me acquainted; and spoke so many 
things of personal kindness and esteem 
for me, that I am inclined half to believe 
what some friends have told me, that he 
would do everything to bring me over. 
He has desired to dine with me (what a 
comical mistake was that), I mean, he has 
desired me to dine with him on Tuesday; 
and after four hours being with him, [90 
set me down at St. James's Coffeehouse, 
in a hackney coach. All this is odd and 
comical if you consider him and me. He 
knew my Christian name very well. I 
could not forbear saying thus much upon 
this matter, although you will think it 
tedious. But I will tell you; you must 
know, 'tis fatal to me to be a scoundrel 
and a prince the same day: for being to 
see him at four, I could not engage [100 



SWIFT 



237 



myself to dine at any friend's; so I went 
to Tooke, to give him a ballad and dine 
with him; but he was not at home; so I 
was forced to go to a blind chop house, and 
dine for tenpence upon gill ale, bad broth, 
and three chops of mutton; and then go 
reeking from thence to the first minister 
of state. And now I am going in charity to 
send Steele a Tatler, who is very low of 
late. I think I am civiller than I used [no 
to be; and have not used the expression 
of "yoti in Ireland" and "we in England," 
as I did when I was here before, to your 
great indignation. — They may talk of the 
you know what; but, gad, if it had not 
been for that, I should never have been 
able to get the access I have had; and if 
that helps me to succeed, then that same 
thing will be serviceable to the church. 
But how far we must depend upon [120 
new friends, I have learned by long prac- 
tice, though I think, among great minis- 
ters, they are just as good as old ones. 
And so I think this important day has 
made a great hole in this side of the paper; 
and the fiddle faddles of to-morrow and 
Monday will make up the rest; and, be- 
sides, I shall see Harley on Tuesday be- 
fore this letter goes. 

Feb. 4, lyii. I went to Mr. Addi- [130 
son's, and dined with him at his lodgings; I 
had not seen him these three weeks ; we are 
grown common acquaintance: yet what 
have I not done for his friend Steele? Mr. 
Harley reproached me the last time I saw 
him, that to please me, he would be recon- 
ciled to Steele, and had promised and ap- 
pointed to see him, and that Steele never 
came. Harrison, whom Mr. Addison rec- 
ommended to me, I have introduced to [140 
the Secretary of State, who has promised 
me to take care of him; and I have repre- 
sented Addison himself so to the ministry, 
that they think and talk in his favor, 
though they hated him before. — Well; he 
is now in my debt, and there's an end; and 
I never had the least obligation to him, 
and there's another end. This evening 
I had a message from Mr. Harley, de- 
siring to know whether I was alive, [150 
and that I would dine with him to-morrow. 
They dine so late, that since my head 
has been ^\Tong, I have avoided being 
with them. 



Feb. 6. Mr. Harley desired I would 
dine with him again to-day; but I re- 
fused him, for I fell out with him yes- 
terday, and will not see him again till 
he makes me amends; and so I go to 
bed. [160 

Feb. 7. I was this morning early with 
Mr. Lewis of the Secretary's office, and 
saw a letter Mr. Harley had sent to him, 
desiring to be reconciled; but I was deaf 
to all entreaties, and have desired Lewis 
to go to him, and let him know I expect 
farther satisfaction. If we let these great 
ministers pretend too much, there will be 
no governing them. He promises to make 
me easy, if I will but come and see [170 
him; but I won't, and he shall do it by 
message, or I will cast him off. I'll tell 
you the cause of our quarrel when I see 
you, and refer it to yourselves. In that 
he did something, which he intended for 
a favor, and I have taken it quite other- 
wise, disliking both the thing and the 
manner, and it has heartily vexed me, 
and all I have said is truth, though it 
looks like jest; and I absolutely re- [180 
fused to submit to his intended favor, 
and expect further satisfaction. 

Feb. I J. I have taken Mr. Harley into 
favor again. 

June JO, lyii. We have plays acted 
in our town, and Patrick was at one 
of them, oh, oh. He was damnably 
mauled one day when he was drunk; he 
was at cuffs with a brother footman, who 
dragged him along the floor on his [190 
face, which looked for a week after as if 
he had the leprosy; and I was glad enough 
to see it. I have been ten times sending 
him over to you; yet now he has new 
clothes, and a laced hat, which the hat- 
ter brought by his orders, and he offered 
to pay for the lace out of his wages. 
Farewell, my dearest lives and lights, I 
love you better than ever, if possible, as 
hope saved, I do, and ever will, [.-'oo 
God Almighty bless you ever, and make 
us happy together; I pray for this t-nice 
every day; and I hope God will hear my 
poor hearty prayers. Remember, if I 
am used ill and ungratefully, as I have 
formerly been, 'tis what I am prepared 
for, and shall not wonder at it. Yet, I am 
now envied, and thought in high favor, 



238 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



and have every day numbers of con- 
siderable men teasing me to solicit [210 
for them. And the ministry all use me 
perfectly well, and all that know them 
say they love me. Yet I can count upon 
nothing, nor will, but upon MD's love 
and kindness. They think me useful; 
they pretended they were afraid of none 
but me; and that they resolved to have 
me; they have often confessed this: yet 
all makes little impression on me. Pox 
of these speculations! they give me [220 
the spleen; and that is a disease I was 
not born to. — Let me alone, sirrahs, and 
be satisfied: I am, as long as MD and 
Presto are well: 

Little wealth. 
And much health, 
And a Hfe by stealth; 

that is all we want; and so, farewell, 
dearest MD; Stella, Dingley, Presto, all 
together, now and forever all to- [230 
gether. Farewell again and again. 

May JJ, i'/i2. I'll say no more to 00 
tonite, sellohs, because I must send away 
the letter, not by the bell, but early: 
and besides, I have not much more to 
say at zis plesent liting. Does MD never 
read at all now, pee? But 00 walk 
plodigiousry, I suppose, — You make noth- 
ing of walking to, to, to, ay, to Dony- 
brook. I walk too as much as I can, [240 
because sweating is good; but I'll walk 
more if I go to Kensington. I suppose 
I shall have no apples this year neither, 
for I dined t'other day with Lord Rivers, 
who is sick at his country house, and he 
showed me all his cherries blasted. Nite 
deelest soUahs; farewell deelest Rives; 
rove poor Pdfr. Farewell deelest richar 
MD, MD, MD, FW, FW, FW, FW, FW, 
ME, ME, Lele, ME, Lele, Lele, [250 
richar MD. 

Nov. 15, iyi2. Before this comes to 
your hands, you will have heard of the 
most terrible accident that hath almost 
ever happened. This morning at eight, 
my man brought me word that Duke of 
Hamilton had fought with Lord Mohun, 
and killed him, and was brought home 
wounded. I immediately sent him to the 
Duke's house, in St. James's Square; [260 
but the porter could hardly answer for 



tears, and a great rabble was about the 
house. In short, they fought at seven 
this morning. The dog Mohun was 
killed on the spot; and while the Duke was 
over him, Mohun shortening his sword, 
stabbed him in at the shoulder to the 
heart. The Duke was helped toward the 
cake-house by the ring in Hyde Park 
(where they fought), and died on the [270 
grass, before he could reach the house; 
and Vv^as brought home in his coach by 
eight, while the poor Duchess was asleep. 
Macartney, and one Hamilton, were the 
seconds, who fought likewise, and are 
both fled. I am told, that a footman of 
Lord Mohun's stabbed Duke of Hamil- 
ton; and some say Macartney did so too. 
Mohun gave the affront, and yet sent the 
challenge. I am infinitely concerned [280 
for the poor Duke, who was a frank, 
honest, good-natured man. I loved him 
very well, and I think he loved me better. 
He had the greatest mind in the world 
to have me go with him to France, but 
durst not tell it to me; and those he did, 
said I could not be spared, which was 
true. They have removed the poor 
Duchess to a lodging in the neighbor- 
hood, where I have been with her two [290 
hours, and am just come away. I never 
saw so melancholy a scene; for indeed all 
reasons for real grief belong to her; nor 
is it possible for any body to be a greater 
loser in all regards. She has moved my 
very soul. The lodging was inconvenient, 
and they would have removed her to 
another; but I would not suffer it, be- 
cause it had no room backward, and 
she must have been tortured with [300 
the noise of the Grub Street screamers 
mentioning her husband's murder to her 
ears. 

I believe you have heard the story of 
my escape, in opening the ben-box sent 
to Lord-Treasurer. The prints have 
told a thousand lies of it; but at last we 
gave them a true account of it at length, 
printed in the evening; only I would not 
suffer them to name me, having been [310 
so often named before, and teased to 
death with questions. I wonder how I 
came to have so much presence of mind, 
which is usually not my talent; but so it 
pleased God, and I saved myself and him; 



ADDISON 



239 



for there was a bullet apiece. A gentle- 
man told me, that if I had been killed, 
the Whigs would have called it a judg- 
ment, because the barrels were of ink- 
horns, with which I had done them [320 
so much mischief. There was a pure Grub 
Street of it, full of lies and inconsistencies. 
I do not like these things at all, and I 
wish myself more and more among my 
willows. There is a devilish spirit among 
people, and the ministry must exert them- 
selves, or sink. Nite dee sollahs, I'll 
go seep. 

Nov. 16. I thought to have finished 
this yesterday, but was too much [330 
disturbed. I sent a letter early this 
morning to Lady Masham, to beg her 
to write some comforting words to the 
poor Duchess. I dined to-day with Lady 
Masham at Kensington. She has prom- 
ised me to get the Queen to write to the 
Duchess kindly on this occasion; and to- 
morrow I will beg Lord-Treasurer to 
visit and comfort her. I have been with 
her two hours again, and find her [340 
worse. Her violences not so frequent, 
but her melancholy more formal and 
settled. She has abundance of wit and 
spirit; about thirty-three years old; hand- 
some and airy, and seldom spared any- 
body that gave her the least provocation; 
by which she had many enemies, and 
few friends. Lady Orkney, her sister-in- 
law, is come to town on this occasion, and 
behaved herself with great human- [350 
ity. They have always been very ill to- 
gether, and the poor Duchess could not 
have patience when people told her I 
went often to Lady Orkney's. But I am 
resolved to make them friends; for the 
Duchess is now no more the object of 
envy, and must learn humility from the 
se'. erest master, Affliction. I design to 
make the ministry put out a proclama- 
tion (if it can be found proper) against [360 
that villain Macartney. What shall we 
do with these murderers? I cannot end 
this letter to-night, and there is no occa- 
sion ; for I cannot send it till Tuesday, and 
the coroner's inquest on the Duke's body 
is to be to-morrow, and I shall know no 
more. But what care 00 for all this? Iss, 
MD im sorry for poo Pdfr's friends; and 
this is a very surprising event. 'Tis 



late, and I'll go to bed. This looks [370 
like journals. Nite. 

Nov. 18. The committee of council is 
to sit this afternoon upon the affair of 
Duke of Hamilton's murder, and I hope 
a proclamation will be out against Ma- 
cartney. I was just now ('tis now noon) 
with the Duchess, to let her know Lord- 
Treasurer will see her. She is mightily 
out of order. The jury have not yet 
brought in their verdict upon the cor- [380 
oner's inquest. We suspect Macartney 
stabbed the Duke while he was fighting. 
The Queen and Lord-Treasurer are in 
great concern at this event. I dine to-day 
again with Lord-Treasurer; but must 
send this to the post-office before, because 
else I shall not have time; he usually 
keeps me so late. 



JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) 

From THE CAMPAIGN, A POEM TO 
HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF MARL- 
BOROUGH 

But, O my muse, what numbers wilt 
thou find 
To sing the furious troops in battle joined ! 
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous 
sound 27s 

The victor's shouts and dying groans con- 
found. 
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the 

skies. 
And all the thunder of the battle rise ! 
'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty 

soul was proved. 
That, in the shock of charging hosts un- 
moved, 280 
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war; 
In peaceful thought the field of death sur- 
veyed. 
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid. 
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 285 
And taught the doubtful battle where to 

rage. 
So when an angel by divine command 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past. 
Calm and serene he drives the furious 
blast, 290 



240 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



And, pleased the Almighty's orders to 

perform, 
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the 

storm. 

HYMN 

The spacious firmament on high. 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame. 

Their great Original proclaim. 

Th' unwearied Sun from day to day s 

Does his Creator's power display; 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale ; i o 
And nightly to the listening Earth 
Repeats the story of her birth: 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn. 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 15 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though in solemn silence all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball; 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found? 20 
In Reason's ear they all rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice; 
Forever singing as they shine, 
"The Hand that made us is divine." 



JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) AND 
RICHARD STEELE (1672-1729) 

From THE TATLER 

PROSPECTUS 

No. I. Tuesday, April 12, ijog 

Quicquid agunt homines 

— nostri est farrago libelli. 
Juv. Sat. i. 8j, 86. 
Whatever men do, or say, or think, or dream, 
Our motley paper seizes for its theme. — Pope. 



Though the other papers, which are 
published for the use of the good people of 
England, have certainly very wholesome 
effects, and are laudable in their particular 



kinds, they do not seem to come up to the 
main design of such narrations, which, I 
humbly presume, should be principally 
intended for the use of politic persons, 
who are so public-spirited as to neglect 
their own affairs to look into trans- [10 
actions of state. Now these gentlemen, 
for the most part, being persons of strong 
zeal, and weak intellects, it is both a 
charitable and necessary work to offer 
something, whereby such worthy and 
well-affected members of the common- 
wealth may be instructed, after their 
reading, what to think; which shall be 
the end and purpose of this my paper, 
wherein I shall, from time to time, [20 
report and consider all matters of what 
kind soever that shall occur to me, and 
publish such my advices and reflections 
every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday 
in the week, for the convenience of the 
post. I resolve to have something which 
may be of entertainment to the fair sex, 
in honor of whom I have invented the 
title of this paper. I therefore earnestly 
desire all persons, without distinc- [30 
tion, to take it in for the present gratis, 
and hereafter at the price of one penny, 
forbidding all hawkers to take more for 
it at their peril. And I desire all persons 
to consider, that I am at a very great 
charge for proper materials for this work, 
as well as that, before I resolved upon it, 
I had settled a correspondence in all parts 
of the known and knowing world. And 
forasmuch as this globe is not trodden [40 
upon by mere drudges of business only, 
but that men of spirit and genius are 
justly to be esteemed as considerable 
agents in it, we shall not, upon a dearth of 
news, present you with musty foreign 
edicts, and dull proclamations, but shall 
divide our relation of the passages which 
occur in action or discourse throughout 
this town, as well as elsewhere, under 
such dates of places as may prepare [50 
you for the matter you are to expect in 
the following manner. 

All accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and 
entertainment, shall be under the article 
of White's Chocolate-house; poetry, under 
that of Will's Coffee-house; learning, 
under the title of Grecian ; . foreign and 
domestic news, you will have from St. 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



241 



James's Coffee-house; and what else 
I have to offer on any other subject [60 
shall be dated from my own Apartment. 

I once more desire my reader to con- 
sider, that as I cannot keep an ingenious 
man to go daily to Will's under two-pence 
each day, merely for his charges; to 
White's under six-pence; nor to the Gre- 
cian, without allowing him some plain 
Spanish, to be as able as others at the 
learned table; and that a good observer 
cannot speak with even Kidney at [70 
St. James's without clean linen; I say, 
these considerations will, I hope, make 
all persons willing to comply with my 
humble request (when my gratis stock is 
exhausted) of a penny apiece; especially 
since they are sure of some proper amuse- 
ment, and that it is impossible for me to 
want means to entertain them, having, 
besides the force of my own parts, the 
power of divination, and that I can, by [80 
casting a figure, tell you all that will 
happen before it comes to pass. 

But this last faculty I shall use very 
sparingly, and speak but of few things 
until they are passed, for fear of divulg- 
ing matters which may offend our su- 



periors. 



— Steele. 



DUELLING 



No. 2^. Tuesday, June 7, lyog. 
Quicquid agunt homines — 
— nostri est farrago libelli. 

Juv. Sat. i. 85, 86. 
Whatever men do, or say, or think, or dream, 
Our motley paper seizes for its theme. — Pope. 

White's Chocolate-House, June 6. 
A letter from a young lady, written 
in the most passionate terms, wherein 
she laments the misfortune of a gentle- 
man, her lover, who was lately wounded 
in a duel, has turned my thoughts to 
that subject, and inclined me to examine 
into the causes which precipitate men into 
so fatal a folly. And as it has been pro- 
posed to treat of subjects of gallantry in 
the article from hence, and no one [10 
point in nature is more proper to be con- 
sidered by the company who frequent 
this place than that of duels, it is worth 



our consideration to examine into this 
chimerical groundless humor, and to lay 
every other thought aside, until we have 
stripped it of all its false pretences to 
credit and reputation amongst men. 

But I must confess, when I consider 
what I am going about, and run over in [20 
my imagination all the endless crowd of 
men of honor who will be offended at 
such a discourse, I am undertaking, me- 
thinks, a work worthy an invulnerable 
hero in romance, rather than a private 
gentleman with a single rapier: but as 
I am pretty well acquainted by great 
opportunities with the nature of man, 
and know of a truth that all men fight 
against their will, the danger vanishes, [30 
and resolution rises upon this subject. 
For this reason I shall talk very freely 
on a custom which all men wish exploded, 
though no man has courage enough to 
resist it. 

But there is one unintelligible word, 
which I fear will extremely perplex my 
dissertation, and I must confess to you 
I find very hard to explain, which is 
the term "satisfaction." An honest [40 
country gentleman had the misfortune 
to fall into company with two or three 
modern men of honor, where he hap- 
pened to be very ill-treated; and one of 
the company, being conscious of his 
offense, sends a note to him in the morn- 
ing, and tells him, he was ready to give 
him satisfaction. "This is fine doing," 
says the plain fellow; "last night he sent 
me away cursedly out of humor, and [50 
this morning he fancies it would be a 
satisfaction to be run through the body." 

As the matter at present stands, it is 
not to do handsome actions denominates 
a man of honor; it is enough if he dares 
to defend ill ones. Thus you often see a 
common sharper in competition with a 
gentleman of the first rank; though all 
mankind is convinced that a fighting 
gamester is only a pick-pocket wdth [60 
the courage of a highwayman. One can- 
not wdth any patience reflect on the un- 
accountable jumble of persons and things 
in this town and nation, which occasions 
very frequently that a brave man falls 
by a hand below that of a common hang- 
man, and yet his executioner escapes the 



242 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



clutches of the hangman for doing it. 
I shall therefore hereafter consider, how 
the bravest men in other ages and na- [70 
tions have behaved themselves upon such 
incidents as we decide by combat; and 
show, from their practice, that this re- 
sentment neither has its foundation from 
true reason or solid fame; but is an im- 
posture, made of cowardice, falsehood, 
and want of understanding. For this 
work, a good history of quarrels would 
be very edifying to the public, and I 
apply myself to the town for par- [So 
ticulars and circumstances within their 
knowledge, which may serve to embellish 
the dissertation with proper cuts. Most 
of the quarrels I have ever known, have 
proceeded from some valiant coxcomb's 
persisting in the wrong, to defend some 
prevailing folly, and preserve himself 
from the ingenuity of owning a mistake. 

By this means it is called ''gi\ing a 
man satisfaction." to urge your [90 
offense against him with your sword; 
which puts me in mind of Peter's order to 
the keeper in The Tale of a Tub: "If you 
neglect to do all this, damn you and your 
generation for ever: and so we bid you 
heartily farewell." If the contradiction 
in the very terms of one of our challenges 
were as well explained and turned into 
downright English, would it not run after 
this manner? [100 

^'Sir. 

Your extraordinary behavior last night, 
and the liberty you were pleased to take 
with me, makes me this morning give 
you this, to tell you, because you are an 
ill-bred puppy, I ^^ill meet you in Hyde- 
park, an hour hence; and because you want 
both breeding and humanity, I desire 
you would come with a pistol in your 
hand, on horseback, and endeavor to [no 
shoot me through the head, to teach you 
more manners. If you fail of doing me 
this pleasiue, I shall say, you are a rascal, 
on ever}' post in town: and so, sir, if you 
will not injure me more, I shall never 
forgive what you have done already. 
Pray, sir, do not fail of getting ever^-thing 
ready; and you will infinitely oblige, sir, 
vour most obedient humble servant, 
etc." * * * [120 

— Steele. 



NED SOFTLY 

No. 163. Tuesday, April 25, lyio. 

Idem inficeto est infieetior rure, 
Simul poemata attigit; neque idem unquam 
-Eque est beatus, ac poenia eum seribit: 
Tarn gaudet in se, tamquc se ipse miratur. 
Nimirum idem omnes fallimur; neque est 

quisquam 
Quem non in aliqud re videre Sujfenu>n 

Pass is 

Catul. de Sujfeno, xx. 14. 
Suffenus has no more wit than a mere 
cloii'n when he attempts to write verses, and 
yet he is never happier than when he is 
scribbling; so much does he admire himself 
and his compositions. And, indeed, this 
is the foible of every one of us, for there is 
no man limng who is not a Suffenus in one 
thing or other. 

Will's Coffee House, April 24. 

I yesterday came hither about two 
hours before the company generally make 
their appearance, with a design to read 
over all the newspapers; but, upon my 
sitting down, I was accosted by Ned 
Softly, who saw me from a corner in the 
other end of the room, where I found he 
had been writing sometliing. "Mr. 
Bickerstaff," says he, "I observe by a 
late Paper of yours, that you and I [10 
are just of a humor; for you must know, 
of all impertinences, there is nothing which 
I so much hate as news. I never read a 
Gazette in my life; and never trouble my 
head about our armies, whether they win 
or lose, or in what part of the world they 
lie encamped." Without gi\'ing me time 
to reply, he drew a paper of verses out 
of his pocket, telling me, ''that he had 
something which would entertain me [20 
more agreeably; and that he would desire 
my judgment upon every line, for that 
we had time enough before us until the 
company came in." 

Ned Softly is a \ery pretty poet, and a 
great admirer of easy lines. Waller is his 
favorite: and as that admirable writer 
has the best and worst verses of any among 
our great English poets, Ned Softly has 
got all the bad ones without book; [30 
which he repeats upon occasion, to show 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



243 



his reading, and garnish his conversation. 
Ned is indeed a true English reader, in- 
capable of relishing the great and mas- 
terly strokes of this art; but wonderfully 
pleased with the little Gothic ornaments 
of epigrammatical conceits, turns, points, 
and quibbles, which are so frequent in the 
most admired of our English poets, and 
practised by those who want genius [40 
and strength to represent, after the man- 
ner of the ancients, simplicity in its nat- 
ural beauty and perfection. 

Finding myself unavoidably engaged 
in such a conversation, I was resolved to 
turn my pain into a pleasure, and to di- 
vert myself as well as I could with so very 
odd a fellow. "You must understand," 
says Ned, "that the sonnet I am going 
to read to you was written upon a [50 
lady, who showed me some verses of her 
own making, and is, perhaps, the best 
poet of our age. But you shall hear it." 

Upon which he began to read as follows: 

To MiRA ON Her Incomparable Poems. 

When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine. 
And tune your soft melodious notes, 

You seem a sister of the Nine, 
Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. 

I fancy, when your song you sing, [60 

(Your song you sing with so much art) 

Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing; 
For, ah ! it wounds me like his dart. 

"Why," says I, "this is a little nosegay 
of conceits, a very lump of salt : every verse 
has something in it that piques; and then 
the dart in the last line is certainly as 
pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram, 
for so I think you critics call it, as ever 
entered into the thought of a poet." [70 
"Dear Mr. Bickerstafif," says he, shaking 
me by the hand, "everybody knows you 
to be a judge of these things; and to tell 
you truly, I read over Roscommon's 
translation of 'Horace's Art of Poetry' 
three several times, before I sat down to 
write the sonnet which I have shown you. 
But you shall hear it again, and pray 
obser\'e every line of it; for not one of 
them shall pass without your approba- [80 
tion. 



When dressed in laurel wreaths you shine. 

"That is," says he, "when you have 
your garland on; when you are writing 
verses." To which I replied, "I know 
your meaning: a metaphor!" "The 
same," said he, and went on: 

" And tune your soft melodious notes. 

"Pray observe the gliding of that verse; 
there is scarce a consonant in it: I [90 
took care to make it run upon liquids. 
Give me your opinion of it." "Truly," 
said I, "I think it as good as the former." 
"I am very glad to hear you say so," 
says he; "but mind the next: 

You seem a sister of the Nine. 

"That is," says he, "you seem a sister 
of the Muses; for, if you look into ancient 
authors, you will find it was their opinion 
that there were nine of them." "I [100 
remember it very well," said I; "but pray 
proceed." 

" Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. 

"Phoebus," says he, "was the god of 
poetry. These Httle instances, Mr. Bick- 
erstaff, show a gentleman's reading. Then, 
to take off from the air of learning, which 
Phoebus and the Muses had given to this 
first stanza, you may observe, how it 
falls all of a sudden into the familiar; [no 
' in Petticoats' ! 

Or Phoebus' self in petticoats." 

"Let us now," says I, "enter upon the 
second stanza; I find the first line is still a 
continuation of the metaphor: 

I fancy, when your song you sing." 

"It is very right," says he, "but pray 
observe the turn of words in those two 
lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting 
of them, and have still a doubt upon [120 
me, whether in the second line it should 
be 'Your song you sing;' or, 'You sing 
your song.' You shall hear them both: 

I fancy, when your song you sing, 
(Your song you sing with so much art) 

or 
I fancy, when your song you sing, 

(You sing your song vnth. so much art.) " 

"Truly," said I, "the turn is so natural 
either way, that you have made me [130 



244 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



almost giddy with it." "Dear sir," said 
he, grasping me by the hand, "you have 
a great deal of patience; but pray what do 
you think of the next verse? 

Your pen was plucked from Cupid's wing." 

"Think!" says I; "I think you have 
made Cupid look like a little goose." 
"That was my meaning," says he: "I 
think the ridicule is well enough hit off. 
But we come now to the last, which [140 
sums up the whole matter: 

For, ah! it wounds me like his dart. 

"Pray, how do you like that Ah! doth 
it not make a pretty figure in that place? 

Ah! it looks as if I felt the dart, and 

cried out as being pricked with it! 

For, ah! it wounds me like his dart. 

"My friend Dick Easy," continued he, 
"assured me, he would rather have written 
that Ah! than to have been the au- [150 
thor of the ^Eneid. He indeed objected, 
that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of 
the lines, and like a dart in the other. But 
as to that— — " "Oh! as to that," says I, 
"it is but supposing Cupid to be like a 
porcupine, and his quills and darts will be 
the same thing." He was going to em- 
brace me for the hint; but half a dozen 
critics coming into the room, whose faces 
he did not like, he conveyed the son- [160 
net into his pocket, and whispered me in 
the ear, "he would show it me again as 
soon as his man had written it over fair." 

— Addison. 



FROZEN WORDS 



No. 254. Thursday, November 23, lyio. 
Splendide mendax- 



Hor. 2 Od. Hi. jj. 

Gloriously false . 

Francis. 

My Own Apartment, November 22. 
There are no books which I more delight 
in than in travels, especially those that 
describe remote countries, and give the 
writer an opportunity of showing his 
parts without incurring any danger of 



being examined or contradicted. Among 
all the authors of this kind, our renowned 
countryman. Sir John Mandeville, has 
distinguished himself by the copiousness 
of his invention and the greatness of [10 
his genius. The second to Sir John I take 
to have been Ferdinand Mendez Pinto, 
a person of infinite adventure, and un- 
bounded imagination. One reads the 
voyages of these two great wits, with as 
much astonishment as the travels of Ulys- 
ses in Homer, or of the Red-Cross Knight 
in Spenser. All is enchanted ground, and 
fairyland. 

I have got into my hands, by great [20 
chance, several manuscripts of these two 
eminent authors, which are filled with 
greater wonders than any of those they 
have communicated to the public; and 
indeed, were they not so well attested, they 
would appear altogether improbable. I 
am apt to think the ingenious authors did 
not publish them with the rest of their 
works, lest they should pass for fictions 
and fables: a caution not unnecessary, [30 
when the reputation of their veracity was 
not yet established in the world. But as 
this reason has now no farther weight, I 
shall make the public a present of these 
curious pieces, at such times as I shall 
find myself unprovided with other sub- 
jects. 

The present paper I intend to fill with 
an extract from Sir John's Journal, in 
which that learned and worthy knight [40 
gives an account of the freezing and 
thawing of several short speeches, which 
he made in the territories of Nova Zembla. 
I need not inform my reader, that the 
author of "Hudibras" alludes to this 
strange quality in that cold climate, 
when, speaking of abstracted notions 
clothed in a visible shape, he adds that 
apt simile, 

"Like words congealed in northern air." 50 

Not to keep my reader any longer in sus- 
pense, the relation put into modern lan- 
guage, is as follows : 

"We were separated by a storm in the 
latitude of seventy-three, insomuch, that 
only the ship which I was in, with a Dutch 
and French vessel, got safe into a creek 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



245 



of Nova Zembla. We landed, in order 
to refit our vessels, and store ourselves 
with provisions. The crew of each ves- [60 
sel made themselves a cabin of turf and 
wood, at some distance from each other, 
to fence themselves against the inclemen- 
cies of the weather, which was severe 
beyond imagination. We soon observed, 
that in talking to one another we lost 
several of our words, and could not hear 
one another at above two yards distance, 
and that too when we sat very near the 
fire. After much perplexity, I found [70 
that our words froze in the air, before 
they could reach the ears of the persons 
to whom they were spoken. I was soon 
confirmed in this conjecture, when, upon 
the increase of the cold, the whole com- 
pany grew dumb, or rather deaf; for 
every man was sensible, as we afterwards 
found, that he spoke as well as ever; but 
the sounds no sooner took air than they 
were condensed and lost. It was now [80 
a miserable spectacle to see us nodding 
and gaping at one another, every man 
talking, and no man heard. One might 
observe a seaman that could hail a ship 
at a league's distance, beckoning with 
his hand, straining his lungs, and tearing 
his throat; but all in vain: 



-Nee vox nee verba sequuntur. 
Ovid, Met. xi. 326. 



"Nor voice, nor words. ensued. 

"We continued here three weeks [90 
in this dismal plight. At length, upon a 
turn of wind, the air about us began to 
thaw. Our cabin was immediately filled 
with a dry clattering sound, which I 
afterwards found to be the crackling of 
consonants that broke above our heads, 
and were often mixed with a gentle hiss- 
ing, which I imputed to the letter s, that 
occurs so frequently in the English tongue. 
I soon after felt a breeze of whispers [100 
rushing by my ear; for those, being of a 
soft and gentle substance, immediately 
liquefied in the warm wind that blew 
across our cabin. These were soon fol- 
lowed by syllables and short words, and 
at length by entire sentences, that melted 
sooner or later, as they were more or less 
congealed; so that we now heard every 



thing that had been spoken during the 
whole three weeks that we had been [no 
silent, if I may use that expression. It 
was now very early in the morning, and 
yet, to my surprise, I heard somebody 
say, 'Sir John, it is midnight, and time 
for the ship's crew to go to bed.' This 
I knew to be the pilot's voice; and, upon 
recollecting myself, I concluded that he 
had spoken these words to me some days 
before, though I could not hear them 
until the present thaw. My reader [120 
will easily imagine how the whole crew was 
amazed to hear every man talking, and 
see no man opening his mouth. In the 
midst of this great surprise we were all 
in, we heard a volley of oaths and curses, 
lasting for a long while, and uttered in a 
very hoarse voice, which I knew belonged 
to the boatswain, who was a very choleric 
fellow, and had taken his opportunity of 
cursing and swearing at me, when he [130 
thought I could not hear him; for I had 
several times given him the strappado on 
that account, as I did not fail to repeat 
it for these his pious soliloquies, when 
I got him on shipboard. 

"I must not omit the names of several 
beauties in Wapping, which were heard 
every now and then, in the midst of a 
long sigh that accompanied them; as, 
'Dear Kate!' 'Pretty Mrs. Peggy!' [140 
'When shall I see my Sue again!' This 
betrayed several amours which had been 
concealed until that time, and furnished 
us with a great deal of mirth in our return 
to England. 

"When this confusion of voices was 
pretty well over, though I was afraid to 
offer at speaking, as fearing I should 
not be heard, I proposed a visit to the 
Dutch cabin, which lay about a mile [150 
farther up in the country. My crew were 
extremely rejoiced to find they had again 
recovered their hearing; though every 
man uttered his voice with the same 
apprehensions that I had done, 

" Et timide verba intermissa retentat. 

OviD, Met. i. ^46. 
''And tried his tongue, his silence softly 
broke. 

"At about half-a-mile's distance from 
our cabin we heard the groanings of a bear, 



246 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



which at first startled us; but, upon [160 
enquiry, we were informed by some of 
our company, that he was dead, and now 
lay in salt, having been killed upon that 
very spot about a fortnight before, in the 
time of the frost. Not far from the 
same place, we were likewise entertained 
with some posthumous snarls and barkings 
of a fox. 

"We at length arrived at the Uttle 
Dutch settlement; and, upon entering [170 
the room, found it filled with sighs that 
smelt of brandy, and several other un- 
savory sounds, that were altogether in- 
articulate. My valet, who was an Irish- 
man, fell into so great a rage at what he 
heard, that he drew his sword; but not 
knowing where to lay the blame, he put 
it up again. We were stunned with these 
confused noises, but did not hear a single 
word until about half-an-hour after; [180 
which I ascribed to the harsh and ob- 
durate sounds of that language, which 
wanted more time than ours to melt, and 
become audible. 

"After having here met with a very 
hearty welcome, we went to the cabin of 
the French, who, to make amends for 
their three weeks' silence, were talking 
and disputing with greater rapidity and 
confusion than I ever heard in an [190 
assembly, even of that nation. Their 
language, as I found, upon the first giving 
of the weather, fell asunder and dissolved. 
I was here convinced of an error, into 
which I had before fallen; for I fancied, 
that for the freezing of the sound, it was 
necessary for it to be wrapped up, and, 
as it were, preserved in breath: but 
I found my mistake when I heard the 
sound of a kit playing a minuet over [200 
our heads. I asked the occasion of it ; upon 
which one of the company told me that 
it would play there above a week longer; 
'for,' says he, 'finding ourselves bereft of 
speech, we prevailed upon one of the com- 
pany, who had his musical instrument 
about him, to play to us from morning 
to night; all which time was employed 
in dancing in order to dissipate our 
chagrin, and tuer le temps.'"' [210 

Here Sir John gives very good philosoph- 
ical reasons, why the kit could not be 
heard during the frost; but, as they are 



something prolix, I pass them over in 
silence, and shall only observe, that the 
honorable author seems, by his quota- 
tions, to have been well versed in the 
ancient poets, which perhaps raised his 
fancy above the ordinary pitch of histo- 
rians, and very much contributed to [220 
the embellishment of his writings. 

— Addison. 



From THE SPECTATOR 
MR. SPECTATOR 

No. I. Thursday, March i, lyii, 

Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare 

lucem 
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat. 
Hor. Ars Poet. 14 j. 

One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke; 
Another out of smoke brings glorious light, 
And, without raising expectation high, 
Surprises us with dazzling miracles. 

— Roscommon. 

I have observed that a reader seldom 
peruses a book with pleasure, till he 
knows whether the writer of it be a black 
or a fair man, of a mild or choleric dis- 
position, married or a bachelor, with 
other particulars of the like nature, that 
conduce very much to the right under- 
standing of an author. To gratify this 
curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, 
I design this paper, and my next, [10 
as prefatory discourses to my following 
writings, and shall give some account in 
them of the several persons that are en- 
gaged in this work. As the chief trouble 
of compiling, digesting, and correcting 
will fall to my share, I must do myself 
the justice to open the work with my 
own history. 

I was born to a small hereditary es- 
tate, which, according to the tradition [20 
of the village where it lies, was bounded 
by the same hedges and ditches in Wil- 
liam the Conqueror's time that it is at 
present, and has been delivered down 
from father to son whole and entire, 
without the loss or acquisition of a single 
field or meadow, during the space of six 
hundred years. There runs a story in 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



247 



the family that when my mother was 
gone with child of me about three [30 
months, she dreamt that she was brought 
to bed of a judge. Whether this might 
proceed from a law-suit which was then 
depending in the family, or my father's 
being a justice of the peace, I cannot de- 
termine; for I am not so vain as to think 
it presaged any dignity that I should 
arrive at in my future life, though that 
was the interpretation which the neigh- 
borhood put upon it. The gravity of [40 
my behavior at my very first appearance 
in the world seemed to favor my mother's 
dream; for, as she often told me, I threw 
away my rattle before I was two months 
old, and would not make use of my coral 
until they had taken away the bells from 
it. 

As for the rest of my infancy, there 
being nothing in it remarkable, I shall 
pass it over in silence. I find that [50 
during my nonage I had the reputation 
of a very sullen youth, but was always a 
favorite of my schoolmaster, who used 
to say, that my parts were solid, and 
would wear well. I had not been long 
at the university, before I distinguished 
myself by a most profound silence; for, 
during the space of eight years, excepting 
in the public exercises of the college, 
I scarce uttered the quantity of a [60 
hundred words; and indeed do not re- 
member that I ever spoke three sentences 
together in my whole life. Whilst I was 
in this learned body, I applied myself 
with so much diligence to my studies, 
that there are very few celebrated books, 
either in the learned or the modern tongues, 
which I am not acquainted with. 

Upon the death of my father, I was 
resolved to travel into foreign coun- [70 
tries, and therefore left the university, 
with the character of an odd unaccount- 
able fellow, that had a great deal of learn- 
ing, if I would but show it. An insatiable 
thirst after knowledge carried me into 
all the countries of Europe, in which there 
was anything new or strange to be seen; 
nay, to such a degree was my curiosity 
raised, that having read the controversies 
of some great men concerning the an- [80 
tiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage to 
Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the 



measure of a pyramid; and as soon as I 
had set myself right in that particular, 
returned to my native country with great 
satisfaction. 

I have passed my latter years in this 
city, where I am frequently seen in most 
public places, though there are not above 
half a dozen of my select friends that [90 
know me; of whom my next paper shall 
give a more particular account. There 
is no place of general resort, wherein 
I do not often make my appearance; 
sometimes I am seen thrusting my head 
into a round of politicians at Will's, and 
listening with great attention to the nar- 
ratives that are made in those little cir- 
cular audiences. Sometimes I smoke a 
pipe at Child's, and whilst I seem at- [100 
tentive to nothing but the Postman, 
overhear the conversation of every table 
in the room. I appear on Sunday nights 
at St. James's coffee-house, and some- 
times join the little committee of politics 
in the inner room, as one who comes there 
to hear and improve. My face is likewise 
very well known at the Grecian, the 
Cocoa-tree, and in the theaters both of 
Drury-Lane and the Hay-market. I [no 
have been taken for a merchant upon 
the Exchange for above these ten years, 
and sometimes pass for a Jew in the as- 
sembly of stock-jobbers at Jonathan's. 
In short, wherever I see a cluster of people, 
I always mix with them, though I never 
open my lips but in my own club. 

Thus I live in the world rather as a 
Spectator of mankind, than as one of the 
species, by which means I have made [120 
myself a speculative statesman, soldier, 
merchant, and artisan, without ever med- 
dling with any practical part in life. I 
am very well versed in the theory of a 
husband or a father, and can discern the 
errors in the economy, business, and di- 
version of others, better than those who 
are engaged in them; as standers-by dis- 
cover blots which are apt to escape those 
who are in the game. I never espoused [130 
any party with \dolence, and am resolved 
to observe an exact neutrality between 
the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall 
be forced to declare myself by the hos- 
tilities of either side. In short, I have 
acted in all the parts of my life as a looker- 



248 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



on, which is the character I intend to 
preserve in this paper. 

I have given the reader just so much 
of my history and character, as to let [140 
him see I am not altogether unqualified 
for the business I have undertaken. As 
for other particulars in my life and adven- 
tures, I shall insert them in following 
papers, as I shall see occasion. In the 
meantime, when I consider how much I 
have seen, read, and heard, I begin to 
blame my own taciturnity; and since I 
have neither time nor inclination, to com- 
municate the fulness of my heart in [150 
speech, I am resolved to do it in writ- 
ing, and to print myself out, if possible, 
before I die. I have been often told by 
my friends, that it is a pity so many 
useful discoveries which I have made 
should be in the possession of a silent 
man. For this reason, therefore, I shall 
publish a sheet-full of thoughts every 
morning, for the benefit of my contempo- 
raries; and if I can any way contrib- [160 
ute to the diversion or improvement of 
the country in which I live, I shall leave 
it when I am summoned out of it, with 
the secret satisfaction of thinking that 
I have not lived in vain. 

There are three very material points 
which I have not spoken to in this paper; 
and which, for several important rea- 
sons, I must keep to myself, at least for 
some time: I mean, an account of [170 
my name, my age, and my lodgings. I 
must confess, I would gratify my reader 
in anything that is reasonable; but as for 
these three particulars, though I am sen- 
sible they might tend very much to the 
embellishment of my paper, I cannot yet 
come to a resolution of communicating 
them to the public. They would indeed 
draw me out of that obscurity which I 
have enjoyed for many years, and ex- [180 
pose me in pubhc places to several salutes 
and civilities, which have been always very 
disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain 
I can suffer, is the being talked to, and 
being stared at. It is for this reason like- 
wise, that I keep my complexion and 
dress as very great secrets; though it is 
not impossible but I may make discover- 
ies of both in the progress of the work 
I have undertaken. [190 



After having been thus particular upon 
myself, I shall, in to-morrow's paper, 
j give an account of those gentlemen who 
are concerned with me in this work; for, 
as I have before intimated, a plan of it 
is laid and concerted, as all other matters 
of importance are, in a club. However, 
as my friends have engaged me to stand 
in the front, those who have a mind to 
correspond with me may direct their [200 
letters to the Spectator, at Mr. Buck- 
ley's, in Little Britain. For I must further 
acquaint the reader, that, though our 
club meets only on Tuesdays and Thurs- 
days, we have appointed a committee to 
sit every night, for the inspection of all 
such papers as may contribute to the 
advancement of the public weal. 

— Addison. 



THE CLUB 

No. 2. Friday, March 2, ijii. 

— Ast alii se^ 
Et plures uno conclamant ore. 

— Juv. Sat. vii. i6j. 
Six more at least join their consenting voice. 

The first of our society is a gentleman 
of Worcestershire, of ancient descent, a 
baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. 
His great grandfather was inventor of 
that famous country-dance which is called 
after him. All who know that shire are 
very well acquainted with the parts and 
merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman 
that is very singular in his behavior, but 
his singularities proceed from his [10 
good sense, and are contradictions to the 
manners of the world, only as he thinks 
the world is in the wrong. However, this 
humor creates him no enemies, for he 
does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; 
and his being unconfined to modes and 
forms, makes him but the readier and more 
capable to please and oblige all who know 
him. When he is in town, he lives in 
Soho Square. It is said, he keeps himself [20 
a bachelor, by reason he was crossed in 
love by a perverse beautiful ■widow of the 
next county to him. Before this disap- 
pointment, Sir Roger was what you call 
a fine gentleman, had often supped with 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



249 



my Lord Rochester and Sir George Eth- 
erege, fought a duel upon his first coming 
to town, and kicked Bully Dawson in 
a public coffee house for calling him 
youngster. But being ill used by the [30 
above mentioned widow, he was very 
serious for a year and a half; and though, 
his temper being naturally jovial, he at 
last got over it, he grew careless of himself, 
and never dressed afterwards. He con- 
tinues to wear a coat and doublet of the 
same cut that were in fashion at the time 
of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, 
he tells us, has been in and out twelve 
times since he first wore it. It is said [40 
Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after 
he had forgot his cruel beauty, inasmuch 
that it is reported he has frequently of- 
fended in point of chastity with beggars 
and gypsies; but this is looked upon, by 
his friends, rather as matter of raillery 
than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth 
year, cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a 
good house both in town and country; 
a great lover of mankind; but there is [50 
such a mirthful cast in his behavior, that 
he is rather beloved than esteemed. 

His tenants grow rich, his servants look 
satisfied, all the young women profess love 
to him, and the young men are glad of his 
company. When he comes into a house, he 
calls the servants by their names, and 
talks all the way up stairs to a visit. I 
must not omit, that Sir Roger is a justice 
of the quorum; that he fills the chair [60 
at a quarter-session with great abilities, 
and three months ago, gained universal 
applause, by explaining a passage in the 
game-act. 

The gentleman next in esteem and 
authority among us, is another bachelor, 
v»ho is a member of the Inner Temple; 
a man of great probity, wit, and under- 
standing; but he has chosen his place of 
residence rather to obey the direction [70 
of an old humorsome father, than in pur- 
suit of his own inclinations. He was 
placed there to study the laws of the land, 
and is the most learned of any of the house 
in those of the stage. Aristotle and 
Longinus are much better understood by 
him than Littleton or Coke. The father 
sends up every post questions relating to 
marriage articles, leases, and tenures, in 



the neighborhood; all which questions [80 
he agrees with an attorney to answer and 
take care of in the lump. He is studying 
the passions themselves, when he should 
be inquiring into the debates among men 
which arise from them. He knows the 
argument of each of the orations of Demos- 
thenes and Tully; but not one case in 
the reports of our own courts. No one 
ever took him for a fool, but none, ex- 
cept his intimate friends, know he has [90 
a great deal of wit. This turn makes 
him at once both disinterested and agree- 
able. As few of his thoughts are drawn 
from business, they are most of them fit 
for conversation. His taste of books is 
a little too just for the age he lives in; 
he has read all, but approves of very few. 
His familiarity wdth the customs, man- 
ners, actions, and writings of the an- 
cients, makes him a very delicate ob- [100 
server of what occurs to him in the pres- 
ent world. He is an excellent critic, and 
the time of the play is his hour of busi- 
ness; exactly at five he passes through 
New Inn, crosses through Russell court, 
and takes a turn at Will's, till the play 
begins; he has his shoes rubbed, and his 
periwig powdered, at the barber's as you 
go into the Rose. It is for the good of the 
audience when he is at a play; for [no 
the actors have an ambition to please him. 
The person of next consideration is Sir 
Andrew Freeport, a merchant of great 
eminence in the city of London. A person 
of indefatigable industry, strong reason, 
and great experience. His notions of 
trade are noble and generous, and, as 
every rich man has usually some sly 
way of jesting, which would make no great 
figure were he not a rich man, he [120 
calls the sea the British Common. He 
is acquainted with commerce in aU its 
parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid 
and barbarous way to extend dominion 
by arms; for true power is to be got by 
arts and industr}^ He will often argue 
that if this part of our trade were well 
cultivated, we should gain from one na- 
tion; — and if another, from another. I 
have heard him prove, that diligence [130 
makes more lasting acquisitions than 
valor, and that sloth has ruined more 
nations than the sword. He abounds in 



250 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



several frugal maxims, amongst which 
the greatest favorite is, "A penny saved 
is a penny got." A general trader of 
good sense is pleasanter company than 
a general scholar; and Sir Andrew having 
a natural unaffected eloquence, the per- 
spicuity of his discourse gives the [140 
same pleasure that wit would in another 
man. He has made his fortunes himself; 
and says that England may be richer 
than other kingdoms, by as plain methods 
as he himself is richer than other men; 
though at the same time I can say this of 
him, that there is not a point in the com- 
pass but blows home a ship in which he 
is an owner. 

Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room [150 
sits Captain Sentry, a gentleman of great 
courage, good understanding, but in- 
vincible modesty. He is one of those 
that deserve very well, but are very awk- 
ward at putting their talents within the 
observation of such as should take notice 
of them. He was some years a captain, 
and behaved himself with great gallantry 
in several engagements and at several 
sieges; but having a small estate of [160 
his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, 
he has quitted a way of life, in which 
no man can rise suitably to his merit, 
who is not something of a courtier as well 
as a soldier. I have heard him often 
lament, that in a profession where merit 
is placed in so conspicuous a view, im- 
pudence should get the better of modesty. 
When he has talked to this purpose, I 
never heard him make a sour expres- [170 
sion, but frankly confess that he left the 
world, because he was not fit for it. A 
strict honesty and an even regular be- 
havior are in themselves obstacles to 
him that must press through crowds who 
endeavor at the same end with himself, 
the favor of a commander. He will, how- 
ever, in his way of talk, excuse generals 
for not disposing according to men's de- 
sert, or inquiring into it: for, says he, [180 
that great man who has a mind to help 
me, has as many to break through to 
come at me, as I have to come at him: 
therefore, he will conclude, that the man 
who would make a figure, especially in a 
military way, must get over all false 
modesty, and assist his patron against 



the importunity of .other pretenders, by 
a proper assurance in his own vindication. 
He says it is a civil cowardice to [190 
be backward in asserting what you ought 
to expect, as it is a military fear to be 
slow in attacking when it is your duty. 
With this candor does the gentleman 
speak of himself and others. The same 
frankness runs through all his conversa- 
tion. The mihtary part of his life has 
furnished him with many adventures, in 
the relation of which he is very agreeable 
to the company; for he is never [200 
over-bearing, though accustomed to com- 
mand men in the utmost degree below 
him; nor ever too obsequious, from an 
habit of obeying men highly above him. 
But, that our society may not appear 
a set of humorists, unacquainted with the 
gallantries and pleasures of the age, we 
have amongst us the gallant Will Honey- 
comb, a gentleman who, according to his 
years, should be in the decline of his [210 
life, but, having ever been very careful 
of his person, and always had a very easy 
fortune, time has made but a very little 
impression, either by wrinkles on his 
forehead, or traces on his brain. His 
person is well turned, of a good height. 
He is very ready at that sort of discourse 
with which men usually entertain women. 
He has all his life dressed very well, and 
remembers habits as others do men. [220 
He can smile when one speaks to him, and 
laughs easily. He knows the history of 
every mode, and can inform you from 
which of the French king's wenches our 
wives and daughters had this manner of 
curling their hair, that way of placing 
their hoods; whose frailty was covered 
by such a sort of petticoat, and whose 
vanity to show her foot made that part 
of the dress so short in such a year. [230 
In a word, all his conversation and knowl- 
edge have been in the female world. 
As other men of his age will take notice 
to you what such a minister said upon 
such and such an occasion, he will tell 
you, when the Duke of Monmouth 
danced at court, such a woman was then 
smitten, another was taken with him at 
the head of his troop in the Park. In all 
these important relations, he has ever [240 
about the same time received a kind 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



251 



glance or a blow of a fan from some 
celebrated beauty, mother of the present 
Lord Such-a-one. * * * This way of 
talking of his very much enlivens the 
conversation among us of a more sedate 
turn; and I find there is not one of the 
company, but myself, who rarely speak 
at all, but speaks of him as of that sort 
of man who is usually called a well- [250 
bred fine gentleman. To conclude his 
character, where w^omen are not con- 
cerned, he is an honest worthy man. 

I cannot tell whether I am to account 
him whom I am next to speak of, as one of 
our company; for he visits us but seldom, 
but when he does, it adds to every man 
else a new enjoyment of himself. He is 
a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of 
general learning, great sanctity of life, [260 
and the most exact good breeding. He 
has the misfortune to be of a very weak 
constitution; and consequently cannot 
accept of such cares and business as pre- 
ferments in his function would oblige 
him to; he is therefore among divines 
what a chamber-councillor is among 
lawyers. The probity of his mind, and 
the integrity of his life, create him fol- 
lowers, as being eloquent or loud ad- [270 
vances others. He seldom introduces the 
subject he speaks upon; but we are so 
far gone in years that he observes, when 
he is among us, an earnestness to have 
him fall on some divine topic, which he 
always treats wdth much authority, as 
one who has no interest in this world, as 
one w^ho is hastening to the object of all 
his wishes, and conceives hope from his 
decays and infirmities. These are my [280 
ordinary companions. 

— Steele. 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

No. 26. Friday, March 30, 1711. 

Pallida mors' cequo pulsat pede pauperum 
tabernas 
Regumque turres, O beate Sexii! 
Vit(B summa brevis spent nos vetat inchoare 
longam. 
Jam ie premet nox, fabulaeque manes, 
Et domus exilis Plutonia. 

Hor. Od. i. 4, ij. 



With equal foot, rich friend, impartial 

Fate 
Knocks at the cottage, and the palace gate: 
Lifers span forbids thee to extend thy cares, 
And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years: 
Night soon will seize, and you must quickly 

go 
To storied ghosts, and Pluto^s house below. 

— Creech. 

When I am in a serious humor, I very 
often walk by myself in Westminster 
Abbey; where the gloominess of the 
place, and the use to which it is applied, 
with the solemnity of the building, and 
the condition of the people who lie in it, 
are apt to fill the mind with a kind of 
melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, 
that is not disagreeable. I yesterday 
passed a whole afternoon in the church- [10 
yard, the cloisters, and the church, amus- 
ing myself with the tombstones and 
inscriptions that I met with in those 
several regions of the dead. Most of 
them recorded nothing else of the buried 
person, but that he was born upon one 
day, and died upon another; the whole 
history of his Hfe being comprehended in 
those two circumstances that are com- 
mon to all mankind. I could not but [20 
look upon these registers of existence, 
whether of brass or marble, as a kind of 
satire upon the departed persons; who 
had left no other memorial of them, but 
that they were born, and that they died. 
They put me in mind of several persons 
mentioned in the battles of heroic poems, 
who have sounding names given them, for 
no other reason but that they may be 
killed, and are celebrated for nothing [30 
but being knocked on the head. 

VXavKov T€ Me'Sovra re ©epcrtAo;;(dv re. Hom. 
Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochum- 
que. Virg. 

The life of these men is finely described 
in holy writ by "the path of an arrow," 
which is immediately closed up and lost. 
Upon my going into the church, I en- 
tertained myself with the digging of a 
grave; and saw in every shovel- full of [40 
it that was thrown up, the fragment of 
a bone or skull intermixed with a kind of 



252 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



fresh mouldering earth, that some time 
or other had a place in the composition 
of a human body. Upon this I began 
to consider with myself what innumer- 
able multitudes of people lay confused 
together under the pavement of that an- 
cient cathedral; how men and women, 
friends and enemies, priests and sol- [50 
diers, monks and prebendaries, were 
crumbled amongst one another, and 
blended together in the same common 
mass; how beauty, strength, and youth, 
with old-age, weakness, and deformity, lay 
undistinguished in the same promiscuous 
heap of matter. 

After having thus surveyed this great 
magazine of mortality, as it were in the 
lump, I examined it more particularly [60 
by the accounts which I found on several 
of the monuments which are raised in 
every quarter of that ancient fabric. 
Some of them were covered with such ex- 
travagant epitaphs, that if it were possible 
for the dead person to be acquainted 
with them, he would blush at the praises 
which his friends have bestowed upon 
him. There are others so excessively 
modest, that they dehver the charac- [70 
ter of the person departed in Greek or 
Hebrew, and by that means are not un- 
derstood once in a twelvemonth. In the 
poetical quarter, I found there were 
poets who had no monuments, and mon- 
uments which had no poets. I observed 
indeed that the present war had filled the 
church with many of these uninhabited 
monuments, which had been erected to 
the memory of persons whose bodies [80 
were perhaps buried in the plains of 
Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean. 

I could not but be very much delighted 
with several modern epitaphs, which are 
written with great elegance of expres- 
sion and justness of thought, and there- 
fore do honor to the living as well as 
to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt 
to conceive an idea of the ignorance or 
politeness of a nation from the turn of [90 
their public monuments and inscriptions, 
they should be submitted to the perusal 
of men of learning and genius, before 
they are put in execution. Sir Cloudesley 
Shovel's monument has very often given 
me great offense. Instead of the brave 



rough English admiral, which was the 
distinguishing character of that plain 
gallant man, he is represented on his 
tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed [100 
in a long periwig, and reposing himself 
upon velvet cushions under a canopy of 
state. The inscription is answerable to 
the monument; for instead of celebrating 
the many remarkable actions he had 
performed in the service of his country, 
it acquaints us only with the manner of 
his death, in which it was impossible for 
him to reap any honor. The Dutch, 
whom we are apt to despise for want [no 
of genius, show an infinitely greater taste 
of antiquity and politeness in their build- 
ings and works of this nature, than what 
we meet with in those of our own coun- 
try. The monuments of their admirals, 
w^hich have been erected at the public 
expense, represent them like themselves; 
and are adorned with rostral crowns and 
naval ornaments, with beautiful festoons 
of sea-weed, shells, and coral. [120 

But to return to our subject. I have 
left the repository of our English kings 
for the contemplation of another day, 
when I shall find my mind disposed for 
so serious an amusement. I know that 
entertainments of this nature are apt to 
raise dark and dismal thoughts in timo- 
rous minds, and gloomy imaginations; 
but for my own part, though I am always 
serious, I do not know what it is to [130 
be melancholy; and can therefore take 
a view of nature in her deep and solemn 
scenes, with the same pleasure as in her 
most gay and delightful ones. By this 
means I can improve myself with those 
objects, which others consider with ter- 
ror. When I look upon the tombs of the 
great, every emotion of envy dies in me; 
when I read the epitaphs of the beauti- 
ful, every inordinate desire goes out; [140 
when I meet with the grief of parents 
upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with 
compassion; when I see the tomb of 
the parents themselves, I consider the 
vanity of grieving for those whom we 
must quickly follow. When I see kings 
lying by those who deposed them, when 
I consider rival wits placed side by side, 
or the holy men that divided the world 
with their contests and disputes, I [150 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



253 



reflect with sorrow and astonishment on 
the little competitions, factions, and 
debates of mankind. When I read the 
several dates of the tombs, of some that 
died yesterday, and some six hundred 
years ago, I consider that great day when 
we shall all of us be contemporaries, 
and make our appearance together. 

— Addison. 



SIR ROGER AT CHURCH 

No. 112. Monday, July q, lyii. 

'A6ava.Tov<; fxev Trpajra ^eous, vo/aw ws StaKctrai 
T6/Aa. — PyTHAG. 

First, in obedience to thy country^ s rites. 
Worship the immortal gods. 

I am always very well pleased with a 
country Sunday, and think, if keeping 
holy the seventh day were only a human 
institution, it would be the best method 
that could have been thought of for the 
polishing and civilizing of mankind. It 
is certain the country people would soon 
degenerate into a kind of savages and 
barbarians, were there not such frequent 
returns of a stated time in which the [10 
whole village meet together with their 
best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, 
to converse with one another upon indif- 
ferent subjects, hear their duties ex- 
plained to them, and join together in 
adoration of the Supreme Being. Sun- 
day clears away the rust of the whole 
week, not only as it refreshes in their 
minds the notions of religion, but as it 
puts both the sexes upon appearing in [20 
their most agreeable forms, and exerting 
al] such qualities as are apt to give them 
a figure in the eye of the village. A coun- 
try fellow distinguishes himself as much 
in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon 
the Change, the whole parish-politics be- 
ing generally discussed in that place 
either after sermon or before the bell 
rings. 

INIy friend Sir Roger, being a good [30 
churchman, has beautified the inside of 
his church with several texts of his own 
choosing. He has likewise given a hand- 



some pulpit-cloth, and railed in the com- 
munion table at his own expense. He 
has often told me, that at his coming to 
his estate he found his parishioners very 
irregular; and that in order to make 
them kneel and join in the responses, 
he gave every one of them a hassock [40 
and a common-prayer book: and at the 
same time employed an itinerant singing 
master, who goes about the country for 
that purpose, to instruct them rightly in 
the tunes of the Psalms; upon which 
they now very much value themselves, 
and indeed outdo most of the country 
churches that I have ever heard. 

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole 
congregation, he keeps them in very [50 
good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep 
in it besides himself; for if by chance he 
has been surprised into a short nap at 
sermon, upon recovering out of it he 
stands up and looks about him, and if 
he sees anybody else nodding, either 
wakes them himself, or sends his serv- 
ants to them. Several other of the old 
knight's particularities break out upon 
these occasions. Sometimes he will [60 
be lengthening out a verse in the singing 
Psalms, half a minute after the rest of 
the congregation have done with it; 
sometimes, when he is pleased with the 
matter of his devotion, he pronounces 
"Amen" three or four times to the same 
prayer; and sometimes stands up when 
everybody else is upon their knees, to 
count the congregation, or see if any of 
his tenants are missing. [70 

I w^as yesterday very much surprised 
to hear my old friend, in the midst of 
the service, calling out to one John 
Matthews to mind what he was about, 
and not disturb the congregation. This 
John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable 
for being an idle fellow, and at that time 
was kicking his heels for his diversion. 
This authority of the knight, though ex- 
erted in that odd manner which ac- [80 
companies him in all circumstances of 
life, has a very good effect upon the parish, 
who are not polite enough to see any 
thing ridiculous in his behavior; besides 
that the general good sense and worthi- 
ness of his character makes his friends 
observe these little singularities as foils 



254 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



that rather set otT than bleniish his good 
quaUties. 

As soon as the sermon is tinished, [oo 
nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is 
gone out of the church. The kniglit 
\valks down from his seat in the chancel 
between a double row of his tenants, that 
stand bowing to him on each side; and 
eN^ery now and then inquires how such 
a one's \yife, or mother, or son, or father 
do, whom he does not see at church; 
which is understood as a secret reprimand 
to the person that is absent. [loo 

The chaplain has often told me, that 
upon a catechising day, when Sir Roger 
has been pleased with a boy that answers 
well, he has ordered a Bible to be gi\-en 
hint next day for his encouragement; and 
sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of 
bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has like- 
wise added fiN'e pounds a year to the 
clerk's place; and that he ma}- encourage 
the young fellows to make themseh'es [no 
perfect in the church- service, has prom- 
ised, upon the death of the present in- 
cumbent, who is very old, to bestow it 
according to merit. 

The fair understanding between Sir 
Roger and his chaplain, and their mu- 
tual concurrence in doing good, is the 
more remarkable, because the very next 
^'illage is famous for the differences and 
contentions that rise between the par- [i^o 
son and the squire, who li\'e in a per- 
petual state of war. The parson is always 
preacliing at the squire, and the squire 
to be ^e^'enged on the parson ne\-er 
comes to church. The squire has made all 
his tenants atheists, and tithe-stealers; 
while tlie parson instructs them e^'e^y 
Sunday in the dignity of Ms order, and 
insinuates to them, in almost every 
sermon, that he is a better man than [130 
his patron. In short, matters ha^'e come 
to such an extremity, that the squire has 
not said liis prayers either in public or 
private this half year; and that the parson 
threatens liim, if he does not mend his 
manners, to pray for him in the face of 
the whole congregation. 

Feuds of this nature, though too fre- 
quent in the coimtry, are \'ery fatal to 
the ordinary people; who are so used [140 
to be dazzled with riches, that they pay 



as much deference to the understanding 
of a man of an estate, as of a man of learn- 
ing; and are very hardly brought to re- 
gard any trutli, how in\portant soever 
it may be, that is preached to them, when 
they know there are several men of five 
hundred a year who do not believe it. 

— Addison. 



SIR ROGER AT THE ASSIZES 

No. 123. Friday, July 20, lyii. 

Comes Jiiauiiliis /;/ via pro vchiculo est. 

Puhl. Syr. Frag. 
A)i agreeable eompanioii upon the road is as 

good as a eoae/i. 

A man's lirst care should be to avoid 
tlie reproaches of his own heart; his next, 
to escape the censures of the world. If 
the last interferes with the former, it 
ought to be entirely neglected; but other- 
wise there cannot be a greater satisfac- 
tion to an honest mind, than to see those 
approbations which it gives itself sec- 
onded by the applauses of the public. A 
man is more sure of conduct, Avhen the [10 
^'erdict which he passes upon his own 
beha\dor is thus ^\•arranted and confirmed 
by the opinion of all that know liim. 

]My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of 
those who is not only at peace within 
hmiself, but belo^•ed and esteemed by all 
about him. He receives a suitable trib- 
ute for his uni^'ersal benevolence to man- 
kind, in the returns of affection and good- 
will, which are paid hmi by e^'ery one [20 
that Ha'cs within his neighborhood. I 
lately met with two or three odd instances 
of that general respect which is shown 
to the good old knight. He would needs 
carry Will Wimble and myself with 
him to the county assizes. As we were 
upon the road Will Wimble joined a 
couple of plain men who rid before us, 
and conversed with them for some time; 
during which my friend Sir Roger ac- [30 
quainted me with their characters. 

''The tirst of them," says he, ''that has 
a spaniel by his side, is a yeoman of 
about an hundred pounds a year, an 
honest man. He is just within the game- 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



255 



act, and qualified to kill a hare or a 
pheasant. He knocks down a dinner 
with his gun twice or thrice a week; and 
by that means lives much cheaper than 
those who have not so good an estate [40 
as himself. He would be a good neighbor 
if he did not destroy so many partridges. 
In short he is a very sensible man; shoots 
flying, and has been several times fore- 
man of the petty jury. 

"That other that rides along with him 
is Tom Touchy, a fellow famous for 
'taking the law' of everybody. There is 
not one in the town where he lives that 
he has not sued at a quarter-sessions. [50 
The rogue had once the impudence to go 
to law with the widow. His head is full 
of costs, damages, and ejectments. He 
plagued a couple of honest gentlemen so 
long for a trespass in breaking one of 
his hedges, till he was forced to sell the 
ground it enclosed to defray the charges 
of the prosecution; his father left him 
fourscore pounds a year; but he has cast 
and been cast so often, that he is not [60 
now worth thirty. I suppose he is going 
upon the old business of the willow tree." 

As Sir Roger was giving me this ac- 
count of Tom Touchy, Will Wimble and 
his two companions stopped short till we 
came up to them. After having paid 
their respects to Sir Roger, Will told him 
that Mr. Touchy and he must appeal to 
him upon a dispute that arose between 
them. Will it seems had been giving [70 
his fellow-traveler an account of his an- 
gling one day in such a hole; when Tom 
Touchy, instead of hearing out his story, 
told him that Mr. Such-a-one, if he 
pleased, might "take the law of him" for 
fishing in that part of the river. My 
friend Sir Roger heard them both, upon 
a round trot; and after having paused 
some time, told them, with the air of a 
man who would not give his judg- [80 
ment rashly, that " much might be said on 
both sides." They were neither of them 
dissatisfied with the knight's determina- 
tion, because neither of them found him- 
self in the wrong by it; upon which we 
made the best of our way to the assizes. 

The court was sat before Sir Roger 
came; but notwithstanding all the justices 
had taken their places upon the bench, 



they made room for the old knight at [90 
the head of them; who, for his reputation 
in the country, took occasion to whisper 
in the judge's ear, that he was glad his 
lordship had met with so much good 
weather in his circuit. I was listening 
to the proceedings of the court with much 
attention, and infinitely pleased with that 
great appearance of solemnity which so 
properly accompanies such a public ad- 
ministration of our laws; when, after [100 
about an hour's sitting, I observed to my 
great surprise, in the midst of a trial, that 
my friend Sir Roger was getting up to 
speak. I was in some pain for him till I 
found he had acquitted himself of two or 
three sentences, with a look of much 
business and great intrepidity. 

Upon his first rising the court was 
hushed, and a general whisper ran among 
the country people that Sir Roger [no 
"was up." The speech he made was so 
little to the purpose, that I shall not trou- 
ble my readers with an account of it; and 
I believe was not so much designed by the 
knight himself to inform the court, as to 
give him a figure in my eye, and keep up 
his credit in the country. 

I was highly delighted, when the court 
rose, to see the gentlemen of the country 
gathering about my old friend, and [120 
striving who should compliment him 
most; at the same time that the ordinary 
people gazed upon him at a distance, not 
a little admiring his courage, that was not 
afraid to speak to the judge. 

In our return home we met with a very 
odd accident; which I cannot forbear re- 
lating, because it shows how desirous all 
who know Sir Roger are of giving him 
marks of their esteem. When we [130 
were arrived upon the verge of his estate, 
we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves 
and our horses. The man of the house 
had, it seems, been formerly a servant 
in the knight's family; and to do honor 
to his old master, had some time since, 
unknown to Sir Roger, put him up in a 
sign-post before the door; so that the 
knight's head had hung out upon the 
road about a week before he himself [140 
knew anything of the matter. As soon 
as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, 
finding that his servant's indiscretion pro- 



2s6 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



ceeded wholly from affection and good- 
will, he only told him that he had made 
him too high a compliment; and when the 
fellow seemed to think that could hardly 
be, added with a more decisive look, that 
it was too great an honor for any man 
under a duke; but told him at the [150 
saine time, that it might be altered with 
a very few touches, and that he himself 
would be at the charge of it. Accordingly, 
they got a painter by the knight's direc- 
tions to add a pair of whiskers to the face, 
and by a little aggravation of the features 
to change it into the Saracen's Head. I 
should not have known this story, had 
not the inn-keeper, upon Sir Roger's 
alighting, told him in my hearing, [160 
that his honor's head was brought back 
last night with the alterations that he 
had ordered to be made in it. Upon this 
my friend with his usual cheerfulness re- 
lated the particulars above-mentioned, 
and ordered the head to be brought into 
the room. I could not forbear discovering 
greater expressions of mirth than ordi- 
nary upon the appearance of this mon- 
strous face, under which, notwith- [170 
standing it was made to frown and stare 
in a most extraordinary manner, I could 
still discover a distant resemblance of my 
old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing me 
laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I 
thought it possible for people to know 
him in that disguise. I at first kept my 
usual silence; but upon the knight's con- 
juring me to tell him whether it was not 
still more like himself than a Saracen, [180 
I composed my countenance in the best 
manner I could, and replied "that much 
might be said on both sides." 

These several adventures, with the 
knight's behavior in them, gave me as 
pleasant a day as ever I met with in any 
of my travels. 

— ^Addison. 



THE VISION OF MIRZA 

No. ijQ. Saturday, September i, lyii. 

— Omnem, quoe nunc obducta tuenti 
Mortales hebetat visus tibi, et humida circum 
Caligat, nubem eripiam— 

Virg. Mn. ii. 604. 



The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light. 
Hangs o'er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal 

sight, 
I will remove — 

When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up 
several Oriental manuscripts, which I 
have still by me. Among others I met 
with one entitled The Visions of Mirza, 
which I have read over with great pleas- 
ure. I intend to give it to the public 
when I have no other entertainment for 
them; and shall begin with the first vision, 
which I have translated word for word as 
follows: [10 

"On the fifth day of the moon, which, 
according to the custom of my forefathers, 
I always keep holy, after having washed 
myself, and offered up my morning devo- 
tions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, 
in order to pass the rest of the day in 
meditation and prayer. As I was here 
airing myself on the tops of the mountains, 
I fell into a profound contemplation on 
the vanity of human life; and passing [20 
from one thought to another, 'Surely,' 
said I, 'man is but a shadow, and life a 
dream.' Whilst I was thus musing, I 
cast my eyes towards the summit of a 
rock that was not far from me, where I 
discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, 
with a musical instrument in his hand. 
As I looked upon him he applied it to his 
lips, and began to play upon it. The 
sound of it was exceedingly sweet, [30 
and wrought into a variety of tunes that 
were inexpressibly melodious, and alto- 
gether different from anything I had 
ever heard. They put me in mind of 
those heavenly airs that are played to 
the departed souls of good men upon 
their first arrival in Paradise, to wear 
out the impressions of their last agonies, 
and qualify them for the pleasures of 
that happy place. My heart melted [40 
away in secret raptures. 

"I had been often told that the rock 
before me was the haunt of a Genius; 
and that several had been entertained 
with music who had passed by it, but 
never heard that the musician had before 
made himself visible. When he had 
raised my thoughts by those transporting 
airs which he played to taste the pleasures 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



257 



of his conversation, as I looked upon [50 
him Uke one astonished, he beckoned to 
me, and by the waving of his hand di- 
rected me to approach the place where he 
sat. I drew near with that reverence 
which is due to a superior nature; and 
as my heart was entirely subdued by the 
captivating strains I had heard, I fell 
down at his feet and wept. The Genius 
smiled upon me with a look of compas- 
sion and affability that familiarized [60 
him to my imagination, and at once dis- 
pelled all the fears and apprehensions 
with which I approached him. He hfted 
me from the ground, and taking me by 
the hand, 'Mirza,' said he, 'I have heard 
thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.' 

"He then led me to the highest pin- 
nacle of the rock, and placing me on the 
top of it, 'Cast thy eyes eastward,' said 
he, 'and tell me what thou seest.' [70 
'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a pro- 
digious tide of water rolling through it.' 
'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is 
the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water 
that thou seest is part of the great Tide 
of Eternity.' 'What is the reason,' said 
I, 'that the tide I see rises out of a thick 
mist at one end, and again loses itself 
in a thick mist at the other? ' ' What thou 
seest,' said he, 'is that portion of [80 
eternity which is called time, measured 
out by the sun, and reaching from the 
beginning of the w^orld to its consumma- 
tion. Examine now/ said he, 'this sea 
that is bounded with darkness at both 
ends, and tell me what thou discoverest 
in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing 
in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge 
thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life: 
consider it attentively.' Upon a more [90 
leisurely survey of it, I found that it con- 
sisted of threescore and ten entire arches, 
with several broken arches, which added 
to those that were entire, made up the 
number about a hundred. As I was count- 
ing the arches, the Genius told me that 
this bridge consisted at first of a thousand 
arches; but that a great flood swept away 
the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous 
condition I now beheld it. 'But tell [100 
me farther,' said he, 'what thou dis- 
coverest on it.' 'I see multitudes of peo- 
ple passing over it,' said I, 'and a black 



cloud hanging on each end of it.' As 1 
looked more attentively, I saw several of 
the passengers dropping through the 
bridge into the great tide that flowed 
underneath it; and upon farther examina- 
tion, perceived there were innumerable 
trap-doors that lay concealed in the [no 
bridge, which the passengers no sooner 
trod upon, but they fell through them 
into the tide, and immediately disap- 
peared. These hidden pit-falls were set 
very thick at the entrance of the bridge, 
so that throngs of people no sooner broke 
through the cloud, but many of them fell 
into them. They grew thinner towards 
the middle, but multiplied and lay closer 
together towards the end of the arches [120 
that were entire. 

"There were indeed some persons, but 
their number was very small, that con- 
tinued a kind of hobbling march on the 
broken arches, but fell through one after 
another, being quite tired and spent with 
so long a walk. 

"I passed some time in the contempla- 
tion of this wonderful structure, and the 
great variety of objects which it [130 
presented. My heart was filled with a 
deep melancholy to see several dropping 
unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and 
jollity, and catching at everything that 
stood by them to save themselves. Some 
were looking up towards the heavens in a 
thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a 
speculation stumbled and fell out of 
sight. Multitudes were very busy in the 
pursuit of bubbles that glittered in [140 
their eyes and danced before them; but 
often when they thought themselves 
within the reach of them, their footing 
failed and down they sunk. In this con- 
fusion of objects, I observed some with 
scymetars in their hands, who ran to 
and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several 
persons on trap-doors which did not seem 
to lie in their way, and which they might 
have escaped had they not been [150 
thus forced upon them. 

"The Genius seeing me indulge myself 
on this melancholy prospect, told me I 
had dwelt long enough upon it. 'Take 
thine eyes off the bridge,' said he, 'and 
tell me if thou yet seest anything thou 
dost not comprehend.' Upon looking up, 



2S8 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



'what mean,' said I, 'those great flights 
of birds that are perpetually hovering 
about the bridge, and settling upon it [i6o 
from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, 
ravens, cormorants, and among many 
other feathered creatures several little 
winged boys, that perch in great numbers 
upon the middle arches.' 'These,' said 
the Genius, 'are Envy, Avarice, Super- 
stition, Despair, Love, with the like cares 
and passions that infest human life.' 

"I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,' 
said I, 'Man was made in vain! how [170 
is he given away to misery and mor- 
tality! tortured in life, and swallowed up 
in death ! ' The Genius being moved with 
compassion towards me, bid me quit so 
uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no 
more,' said he, 'on man in the first stage 
of his existence, in his setting out for 
eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick 
mist into which the tide bears the several 
generations of mortals that fall into [180 
it.' I directed my sight as I was ordered, 
and (whether or no the good Genius 
strengthened it with any supernatural 
force, or dissipated part of the mist that 
was before too thick for the eye to pene- 
trate), I saw the valley opening at the 
farther end, and spreading forth into an 
immense ocean, that had a huge rock of 
adamant running through the midst of 
it, and dividing it into two equal [190 
parts. The clouds still rested on one 
half of it, insomuch that I could discover 
nothing in it; but the other appeared to 
me a vast ocean planted mth innumer- 
able islands, that were covered with fruits 
and flowers, and interwoven with a 
thousand little shining seas that ran 
among them. I could see persons dressed 
in glorious habits with garlands upon 
their heads, passing among the trees, [200 
lying down by the sides of fountains, or 
resting on beds of flowers; and could 
hear a confused harmony of singing birds, 
falling waters, human voices, and musical 
instruments. Gladness grew in me upon 
the discovery of so delightful a scene. I 
wished for the wings of an eagle, that I 
might fly away to those happy seats; but 
the Genius told me there was no pas- 
sage to them, except through the [210 
gates of death that I saw opening every 



moment upon the bridge. 'The islands,' 
said he, ' that lie so fresh and green before 
thee, and with which the whole face of 
the ocean appears spotted as far as thou 
canst see, are more in number than the 
sands on the sea-shore; there are myriads 
of islands behind those which thou here 
discoverest, reaching farther than thine 
eye, or even thine imagination can [220 
extend itself. These are the mansions of 
good men after death, who, according to 
the degree and kinds of virtue in which 
they excelled, are distributed among these 
several islands, which abound with pleas- 
ures of different kinds and degrees, suit- 
able to the relishes and perfections of 
those who are settled in them; every 
island is a paradise accommodated to 
its respective inhabitants. Are not [230 
these, O Mirza, habitations worth con- 
tending for? Does life appear miserable 
that gives thee opportunities of earning 
such a reward? Is death to be feared 
that will convey thee to so happy an 
existence? Think not man was made in 
vain, who has such an eternity reserved 
for him.' I gazed with inexpressible 
pleasure on these happy islands. At 
length, said I, 'Show me now, I be- [240 
seech thee, the secrets that lie hid under 
those dark clouds which cover the ocean 
on the other side of the rock of adamant.' 
The Genius making me no answer, I 
turned me about to address myself to 
him a second time, but I found that he 
had left me; I then turned again to the 
vision which I had been so long contem- 
plating; but instead of the rolling tide, 
the arched bridge, and the happy [250 
islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow 
valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and 
camels grazing upon the sides of it." 

— ^Addison. 

A COQUETTE'S HEART 

No. 281. Tuesday, January 22, 1^12. 

Pectoribus inhians spirantia consulit exta. 

Virg. JEn. iv. 64. 
Anxious the reeking entrails he consults. 

Having already given an account of the 
dissection of a beau's head, with the 



ADDISON AND STEELE 



259 



several discoveries made on that occa- 
sion, I shall here, according to my promise, 
enter upon the dissection of a coquette's 
heart, and communicate to the public 
such particularities as we observed in 
that curious piece of anatomy. 

I should perhaps have waived this 
undertaking, had not I been put in [10 
mind of my promise by several of my 
unknown correspondents, who are very 
importunate with me to make an ex- 
ample of the coquette, as I have already 
done of the beau. It is therefore in 
compliance with the request of friends, 
that I have looked over the minutes of 
my former dream, in order to give the 
public an exact relation of it, which I 
shall enter upon without farther [20 
preface. 

Our operator, before he engaged in this 
visionary dissection, told us that there 
was nothing in his art more difficult than 
to lay open the heart of a coquette, by 
reason of the many labyrinths and recesses 
which are to be found in it, and which 
do not appear in the heart of any other 
animal. 

He desired us first of all to observe [30 
the pericardium, or outward case of the 
heart, which we did very attentively; and 
by the help of our glasses discerned in it 
millions of little scars, which seemed to 
have been occasioned by the points of 
innumerable darts and arrows, that from 
time to time had glanced upon the out- 
ward coat; though we could not discover 
the smallest orifice by which any of them 
had entered and pierced the inward [40 
substance. 

Every smatterer in anatomy knows that 
this pericardium, or case of the heart, 
contains in it a thin reddish liquor, sup- 
{.'osed to be bred from the vapors which 
exhale out of the heart, and being stopped 
here, are condensed into this watery sub- 
stance. Upon examining this liquor, we 
found that it had in it all the qualities 
of that spirit which is made use of in [50 
the thermometer to show the change of 
weather. 

Nor must I here omit an experiment 
one of the company assured us he him- 
self had made with this liquor, which he 
found in great quantity about the heart 



of a coquette whom he had formerly 
dissected. He affirmed to us, that he had 
actually inclosed it in a small tube made 
after the manner of a weather-glass; [60 
but that, instead of acquainting him with 
the variations of the atmosphere, it showed 
him the qualities of those persons who 
entered the room where it stood. He 
affirmed also, that it rose at the approach 
of a plume of feathers, an embroidered 
coat, or a pair of fringed gloves; and that 
it fell as soon as an ill-shaped periwig, a 
clumsy pair of shoes, or an unfashionable 
coat came into his house. Nay, he [70 
proceeded so far as to assure us, that upon 
his laughing aloud when he stood by it, 
the liquor mounted very sensibly, and 
immediately sunk again upon his looking 
serious. In short, he told us that he knew 
very well by this invention, whenever 
he had a man of sense or a coxcomb in 
his room. 

Having cleared away the pericardium, 
or the case, and liquor above-men- [80 
tioned, we came to the heart itself. The 
outward surface of it was extremely slip- 
pery, and the mucro, or "point, so very 
cold withal, that upon endeavoring to 
take hold of it, it glided through the 
fingers like a smooth piece of ice. 

Xhe fibres were turned and twisted in 
a more intricate and perplexed manner 
than they are usually found in other 
hearts; insomuch that the whole heart [90 
w^as wound up together like a Gordian 
knot, and must have had very irregular 
and unequal motions, while it was em- 
ployed in its vital function. 

One thing we thought very observable, 
namely, that upon examining all the 
vessels which came into it, or issued out of 
it, we could not discover any communi- 
cation that it had with the tongue. 

We could not but take notice like- [100 
wise that several of those little nerves in 
the heart which are affected by the senti- 
ments of love, hatred, and other passions, 
did not descend to this before us from the 
brain, but from the muscles which lie 
about the eye. 

Upon weighing the heart in my hand, 
I found it to be extremely light, and 
consequently very hollow, which I did 
not wonder at, when, upon looking [no 



26o 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



into the inside of it, I saw multitudes of 
cells and cavities running one within 
another, as our historians describe the 
apartments of Rosamond's bower. Sev- 
eral of these little hollows were stuffed 
with innumerable sorts of trifles, which 
I shall forbear giving any particular 
account of, and shall, therefore, only take 
notice of what lay first and uppermost, 
which, upon our unfolding it, and [120 
applying our microscopes to it, appeared 
to be a flame-colored hood. 

We are informed that the lady of this 
heart, when living, received the addresses 
of several who made love to her, and did 
not only give each of them encouragement, 
but made everyone she conversed with 
believe that she regarded him with an 
eye of kindness; for which reason we ex- 
pected to have seen the impression of [130 
multitudes of faces among the several 
plaits and foldings of the heart; but to 
our great surprise not a single print of 
this nature discovered itself till we came 
into the very core and centre of it. We 
there observed a little figure, which, 
upon applying our glasses to it, appeared 
dressed in a very fantastic manner. 
The more I looked upon it, the more I 
thought I had seen the face before, but [140 
could not possibly recollect either the 
place or time; when at length one of the 
company, who had examined this figure 
more nicely than the rest, showed us 
plainly by the make of its face, and the 
several turns of its features, that the little 
idol which was thus lodged in the very 
middle of the heart was thfe deceased beau, 
whose head I gave some account of in 
my last Tuesday's paper. [150 

As soon as we had finished our dis- 
section, we resolved to make an experi- 
ment of the heart, not being able to deter- 
mine among ourselves the nature of its 
substance, which differed in so many 
particulars from that in the heart of 
other females. Accordingly, we laid it 
into a pan of burning coals, when we ob- 
served in it a certain salamandrine qual- 
ity, that made it capable of living in [160 
the midst of fire and flame, without 
being consumed or so much as singed. 

As we were admiring this strange 
phenomenon, and standing round the 



heart in a circle, it gave a most prodigious 
sigh, or rather crack, and dispersed all 
at once in smoke and vapor. This im- 
aginary noise, which methought was louder 
than the burst of a cannon, produced 
such a violent shake in my brain, [170 
that it dissipated the fumes of sleep, 
and left me in an instant broad awake. 

— Addison. 



ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744) 
From WINDSOR FOREST 

The groves of Eden, vanished now so 

long, 
Live in description, and look green in 

song: 
These, were my breast inspired with equal 

flame, 
Like them in beauty, should be like in 

fame. 10 

Here hills and vales, the woodland and 

the plain, 
Here earth and water seem to strive 

again ; 
Not chaos-like together crushed and 

bruised. 
But, as the world, harmoniously confused: 
Where order in variety w^e see, 15 

And where, though all things differ, all 

agree. 
Here waving groves a chequered scene 

display, 
And part admit, and part exclude the day; 
As some coy nymph her lover's warm 

address 
Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress. 20 
There, interspersed in lawns and opening 

glades. 
Thin trees arise that shun each other's 

shades. 
Here in full light the russet plains extend : 
There wrapt in clouds the bluish hills 

ascend. 
Even the wild heath displays her purple 

dyes, _ 25 

And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise, 
That crowned with tufted trees and 

springing corn, 
Like verdant isles, the sable waste adorn. 
Let India boast her plants, nor envy we 
The weeping amber or the balmy tree, 30 



POPE 



261 



While by our oaks the precious loads are 

borne, 
And realms commanded which those trees 

adorn. 
Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight, 
Though gods assembled grace his towering 

height. 
Than what more humble mountains offer 

here, _ _ 35 

Where, in their blessings, all those gods 

appear. 
See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona 

crowned, 
Here blushing Flora paints th' enamelled 

ground, 
Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect 

stand, 
And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's 

hand, . 40 

Rich industry sits smiling on the plains, 
And peace and plenty tell a Stuart reigns. 



See ! from the brake the whirring pheas- 
ant springs. 
And mounts exulting on triumphant 

wings : 
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound. 
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the 

ground. 
Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes, 115 
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes. 
The vivid green his shining plumes un- 
fold. 
His painted wings, and breast that flames 

with gold? 
Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds 

the sky, 
The woods and fields their pleasing toils 

deny. 120 

To plains with well-breathed beagles we 

repair. 
And trace the mazes of the circling hare 
(Beasts, urged by us, their fellow beasts 

pursue. 
And learn of man each other to undo). 
With slaughtering guns th' unwearied 

fowler roves, 125 

When frosts have whitened all the naked 

groves. 
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees 

o'ershade, 
And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery 

glade. 



He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye; 
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen 

sky: _ _ _ 130 

Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, 
The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden 

death; 
Oft, as the mounting larks their notes 

prepare, 
They fall, and leave their little lives in 

air. 
In genial spring, beneath the quivering 

shade, 135 

Where cooling vapors breathe along the 

mead, 
The patient fisher takes his silent stand, 
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand: 
With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly 

breed. 
And eyes the dancing cork and bending 

reed. 140 

Our plenteous streams a various race 

supply. 
The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian 

dye. 
The silver eel, in shining volumes rolled. 
The yellow carp, in scales bedropped with 

gold. 
Swift trouts, diversified with crimson 

stains, 145 

And pikes, the tyrants of the watery 

plains. * 

Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery 

car: 
The youth rush eager to the sylvan war. 
Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks 

surround. 
Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening 

hound. 150 

Th' impatient courser pants in every 

vein. 
And, pawing, seems to beat the distant 

plain : 
Hills, vales, and floods appear already 

crossed. 
And ere he starts, a thousand steps are 

lost. 
See the bold youth strain up the threaten- 
ing steep, 155 
Rush through the thickets, down the 

valleys sweep. 
Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager 

speed, 
And earth rolls back beneath the flying 

steed. 



262 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM 

From PART I 

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill; 
But, of the two, less dangerous is th' 

offence 
To tire our patience, than mislead our 

sense. 
Some few in that, but numbers err in this; 5 
Ten censure wrong for one who writes 

amiss; 
A fool might once himself alone expose; 
Now one in verse makes many more in 

prose. 
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, 

none 
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10 
In poets as true genius is but rare, 
True taste as seldom is the critic's share; 
Both must alike from Heaven derive their 

light. 
These born to judge, as well as those to 

write. 
Let such teach others who themselves 

excel, 15 

And censure freely who have written well. 
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true. 
But are not critics to their judgment too? 



First follow Nature, and your judgment 
frame 

By her just standard, which is still the 
same; 

Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70 

One clear, unchanged, and universal light. 

Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart. 

At once the source, and end, and test of 
Art. 

Art from that fund each just supply pro- 
vides. 

Works without show, and without pomp 
presides. 75 

In some fair body thus th' informing soul 

With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the 
whole, 

Each motion guides, and every nerve sus- 
tains ; 

Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. 

Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been 
profuse, 80 

Want as much more, to turn it to its use; 



For wit and judgment often are at strife, 
Though meant each other's aid, like man 

and wife. 
'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's 
steed ; 84 

Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; 
The winged courser, like a generous horse, 
Shows most true mettle when you check 
his course. 
Those rules of old, discovered, not de- 
vised, 
Are Nature still, but Nature methodized; 
Nature, like liberty, is but restrained 90 
By the same laws which first herself or- 
dained. 



You, then, whose judgment the right 
course would steer. 

Know well each ancient's proper char- 
acter; 

His fable, ^ subject, scope in every page; 120 

Religion, country, genius of his age: 

Without all these at once before your eyes, 

Cavil you may, but never criticise. 

Be Homer's works your study and delight. 

Read them by day, and meditate by night; 

Thence form your judgment, thence your 
maxims bring, 126 

And trace the Muses upward to their 
spring. 

Still with itself compared, his text peruse; 

And let your comment be the Mantuan 
Muse. 
When first young Maro in his boundless 
mind 130 

A work t' outlast immortal Rome de- 
signed. 

Perhaps he seemed above the critic's 
law. 

And but from nature's fountains scorned 
to draw: 

But when t' examine every part he came, 

Nature and Homer were, he found, the 
same. 135 

Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold 
design ; 

And rules as strict his labored work con- 
fine. 

As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line. 

Learn hence for ancient rules a just es- 
teem; 

To copy nature is to copy them. 140 

1 plot. 



POPE 



263 



From PART II 



A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 1 5 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian 

spring: 
There shallow draughts intoxicate the 

brain, 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 
Fired at first sight with what the Muse 

imparts. 
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of 

arts, 20 

While from the bounded level of our mind 
Short views we take, nor see the lengths 

behind ; 
But, more advanced, behold with strange 

surprise 
New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 
So pleased at first the towering Alps we 

try, 2 5 

Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread 

the sky, 
Th' eternal snows appear already past. 
And the first clouds and mountains seem 

the last; 
But, those attained, we tremble to survey 
The growing labors of the lengthened way, 
Th' increasing prospects tire our wander- 
ing eyes, 31 
Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps 

arise ! 



Some to conceit alone their taste con- 
fine, 
And glittering thoughts struck out at 

every line; 90 

Pleased with a work where nothing's just 

or fit; 
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. 
Poets like painters, thus unskilled to trace 
The naked nature and the living grace. 
With gold and jewels cover every part, 95 
And hide with ornaments their want of 

art. 
True wit is nature to advantage dressed. 
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well 

expressed ; 
Something whose truth convinced at sight 

we find. 
That gives us back the image of our mind. 
As shades more sweetly recommend the 

light, 1 01 

So modest plainness sets off' sprightly wit. 



For works may have more wit than does 

'em good, 
As bodies perish through excess of blood. 
Others for language all their care ex- 
press, 105 
And value books, as women men, for 

dress: 
Their praise is still — the style is excellent; 
The sense they humbly take upon con- 
tent. 
Words are like leaves; and where they 

most abound. 
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely 

found. no 

False eloquence, like the prismatic glass. 
Its gaudy colors spreads on every place; 
The face of nature we no more survey, 
All glares alike, without distinction gay: 
But true expression, like th' unchanging 

sun, 115 

Clears and improves whate'er it shines 

upon; 
It gilds all objects, but it alters none. • 
Expression is the dress of thought, and 

still 
Appears more decent, as more suitable; 
A vile conceit in pompous words expressed. 
Is like a clown in regal purple dressed: 121 
For different styles with different subjects 

sort,^ 
As several garbs with country, town, and 

court. 
Some by old words to fame have made 

pretence. 
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their 

sense; 125 

Such labored nothings, in so strange a 

style. 
Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the 

learned smile. 
Unlucky as Fungoso in the play, 
These sparks with awkward vanity dis- 
play 
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; 
And but so mimic ancient wits at best, 131 
As apes our grandsires, in their doublets 

dressed. 
In words, as fashions, the same rule will 

hold; 
Alike fantastic if too new or old: 
Be not the first by whom the new are 

tried, _ 135 

Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

■ accord. 



264 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



But most by numbers judge a poet's 

song; 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right 

or wrong. 
In the bright Muse though thousand 

charms conspire, 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools ad- 
mire; 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their 

ear, 141 

Not mend their minds; as some to church 

repair. 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require, 
Though oft the ear the open vowels 

tire; _ 145 

While expletives their feeble aid do join, 
And ten low words oft creep in one dull 

line: 
While they ring round the same unvaried 

chimes, 
With sure returns of still expected rhymes : 
Where'er you find "the cooling western 

breeze," 150 

In the next line, it "whispers through the 

trees;" 
If crystal streams "with pleasing mur- 
murs creep," 
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 

"sleep:" 
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a 

thought, _ 15s 

A needless Alexandrine ends the song. 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow 

length along. 
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, 

and know 
What's roundly smooth or languishingly 

slow ; 
And praise the easy vigor of a line, 1 60 

Where Denham's strength, and Waller's 

sweetness join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not 

chance. 
As those move easiest who have learned to 

dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence: 
The sound must seem an echo to the 

sense. 165 

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently 

blows. 
And the smooth stream in smoother num- 
bers flows; 



But when loud surges lash the sounding 

shore. 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the 

torrent roar. 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight 

to throw, 170 

The line, too, labors, and the words move 

slow. 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the 

plain, 
FHes o'er th' unbending corn, and skims 

along the main. 
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, 
And bid alternate passions fall and rise! 175 
While, at each change, the son of Libyan 

Jove 
Now burns with glory, and then melts with 

love; 
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury 

glow. 
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to 

flow: 
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature 

found, 180 

And the world's victor stood subdued by 

sound ! 
The power of music all our hearts allow. 
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. 
Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of 

such 
Who still are pleased too little or too much. 
At every trifle scorn to take offence; 186 
That always shows great pride, or little 

sense ; 
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the 

best. 
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture 

move; 190 

For fools admire, but men of sense ap- 
prove: 
As things seem large which we through 

mists descry. 
Dullness is ever apt to magnify. 

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 

AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM 

Canto I 

What dire offence from amorous causes 
springs. 
What mighty contests rise from trivial 
things, 



POPE 



265 



I sing. — This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due; 
This, e'en BeHnda may vouchsafe to 

view. 
SHght is the subject, but not so the praise,s 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 
Say what strange motive, Goddess! 

could compel 
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? 
Oh say what stranger cause, yet unex- 
plored, 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 10 
In tasks so bold, can little men engage, 
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty 

rage? 
Sol through white curtains shot a 

timorous ray. 
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the 

day. 
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing 

shake, 15 

And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake. 
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked 

the ground, 
And the pressed watch returned a silver 

sound. 
Belinda still her downy pillow pressed, 
Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy 

rest. 20 

'Twas he had summoned to her silent bed 
The morning-dream that hovered o'er her 

head: 
A youth more glittering than a birth-night 

beau, 
(That ev'n in slumber caused her cheek to 

glow) 
Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, 25 
And thus in whispers said, or seemed to 

say: 
"Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished 

care 
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! 
If e'er one vision touched thy infant 

thought, 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have 

taught — 30 

Of 2ary elves by moonlight shadows seen, 
The silver token, and the circled green. 
Or virgins visited by angel powers, 
With golden crowns and wreaths of heav- 
enly flowers, — 
Hear and believe! thy own importance 

know, 35 

Nor bound thy narrow views to things be- 
low. 



Some secret truths, from learned pride con- 
cealed. 

To maids alone and children are revealed. 

What though no credit doubting wits may 
give? 

The fair and innocent shall still believe. 40 

Know, then, unnumbered spirits round 
thee fly, 

The light militia of the lower sky. 

These, though unseen, are ever on the 
wing. 

Hang o'er the box, and hover round the 

Think what an equipage thou hast in 

air, 45 

And view with scorn two pages and a 

chair. 
As now your own, our beings were of 

old, 
And once enclosed in woman's beauteous 

mould; 
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 
From earthly vehicles to these of air. 50 
Think not, when woman's transient breath 

is fled, 
That all her vanities at once are dead; 
Succeeding vanities she still regards. 
And though she plays no more, o'erlooks 

the cards. 
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 55 
And love of ombre, after death survive. 
For when the fair in all their pride expire, 
To their first elements their souls retire: 
The sprites of fiery termagants in flame 
Mount up, and take a salamander's name. 
Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 61 
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental 

tea. 
The graver prude sinks downward to a 

gnome. 
In search of mischief still on earth to roam. 
The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair. 
And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 66 
''Know further yet: whoever fair and 
chaste 
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph em- 
braced; 
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with 

ease 
Assume what sexes and what shapes they 
please. 70 

What guards the purity of melting maids, 
In courtly balls, and midnight mas- 
querades. 



266 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Safe from the treacherous friend, the dar- 
ing spark. 
The glance by day, the whisper in the 

dark. 
When kind occasion prompts their warm 

desires, 75 

When music softens, and when dancing 

fires? 
'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials 

know. 
Though honor is the word with men below. 
Some nymphs there are, too conscious of 

their face. 
For life predestined to the gnomes' em- 
brace. So 
These swell their prospects and exalt their 

pride, 
When offers are disdained, and love 

denied : 
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain. 
While peers, and dukes, and all their 

sweeping train. 
And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 85 
And in soft sounds 'Your Grace' salutes 

their ear. 
'Tis these that early taint the female soul. 
Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to 

roll, 
Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to 

know, 
And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 90 
"Oft when the world imagine women 

stray. 
The sylphs through mystic mazes guide 

their way; 
Through all the giddy circle they pursue, 
And old impertinence expel by new. 
What tender maid but must a victim 

fall 95 

To one man's treat, but for another's 

ball? 
When Florio speaks, what virgin could 

withstand, 
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? 
With varying \'anities, from e\-ery part. 
They shift the mo^dng toyshop of their 

heart, 100 

Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots 

sword-knots strive. 
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches 

drive. 
This erring mortals levity may call ; 
Oh, blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it 

all. 



*'0f these am I, who thy protection 
claim, 105 

A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air. 
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star 
I saw, alas! some dread event impend. 
Ere to the main^ this morning sun descend, 
But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or 
where. m 

Warned by tlie sylph, pious maid, 

beware! 

This to disclose is all thy guardian can: 

Beware of all, but most beware of man!" 

He said; when Shock, who thought she 

slept too long, 115 

Leaped up, and waked his mistress with 

his tongue. 
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true. 
Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux; 
Wounds, charms, and ardors were no 

sooner read. 
But all the vision vanished from thy head. 
And now, xmveiled, the toilet stands dis- 
played, 121 
Eacli silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent 

adores. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears, 125 
To that she bends, to that her eyes she 

rears. 
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side. 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and 

here 

The various offerings of the world appear; 

From each she nicely culls with curious 

toil, 131 

And decks the goddess with the glittering 

spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite, 135 
Transformed to combs, the speckled, and 

the white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows. 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billets- 
doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
i\nd calls forth all the wonders of her 
face; 142 

■ I the sea. 



POPE 



267 



Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 

And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 

The busy sylphs surround their darling 

care, 145 

These set the head, and those divide the 

hair. 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait 

the gown; 
And Betty 's praised for labors not her 

own. 

Canto II 

Not with more glories, in th' ethereal 

plain. 
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launched on the bosom of the silver 

Thames. 
Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths 

around her shone, 5 

But every eye was fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she 

wore 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those; 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends; n 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers 

strike. 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of 

pride, _ 15 

Might hide her faults, if belles had faults 

to hide; 
If to her share some female errors fall, 
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. 
This nymph, to the destruction of man- 
kind, 
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung 

behind 20 

In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory 

neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 
And mighty hearts are held in slender 

chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray; 25 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey; 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare. 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
Th' adventurous baron the bright locks 

admired; 
He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 



Resolved to win, he meditates the way, 31 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; 
For when success a lover's toil attends, 
Few ask if fraud or force attained his ends. 
For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had im- 
plored 35 
Propitious Heaven, and every Power 

adored. 
But chiefly Love; to Love an altar built. 
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly 

gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of 

gloves, 
And all the trophies of his former loves; 40 
With tender billets-doux he lights the 

pyre, 
And breathes three amorous sighs to raise 

the fire. 
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent 

eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. 
The Powers gave ear, and granted half his 

prayer; _ _ 45 

The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 

But now secure the painted vessel glides. 

The sunbeams trembling on the floating 

tides ; 
While melting music steals upon the sky. 
And softened sounds along the waters die; 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently 
_ play, 51 

Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
All but the sylph — with careful thoughts 

oppressed, 
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his 

breast. 
He summons straight his denizens of air; 55 
The lucid squadrons round the sails re- 
pair;^ 
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers 

breathe. 
That seemed but zephyrs to the train 

beneath. 
Some to the sun their insect-w^ngs unfold. 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of 

gold; 60 

Transparent forms, too fine for mortal 

sight, 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. 
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, 
Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, 
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, 65 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, 

' gather. 



268 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



While every beam new transient colors 

flings, 
Colors that change whene'er they wave 

their wings. 
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 
Superior by the head, was Ariel placed; 70 
His purple pinions opening to the sun, 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: 
"Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief 



give ear 



Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, 

hear! 
Ye know the spheres, and various tasks 

assigned 75 

By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. 
Some in the fields of purest gether play. 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs 

on high. 
Or roll the planets through the boundless 

sky. 80 

Some, less refined, beneath the moon's pale 

light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the 

night. 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below, 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow. 
Or brew fierce tempests on the ^^intry 

main, 85 

Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. 
Others on earth o'er human race preside. 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions 

guide: 
Of these the chief the care of nations own. 
And guard \\\t]i arms divine the British 

throne. 90 

"Our humbler province is to tend the 

fair, 
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious 

care; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale. 
Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale; 
To draw fresh colors from the vernal 

flowers; 95 

To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in 

showers, 
A brighter wash; to curl their wa\dng 

hairs, 

Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; 

Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow. 

To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 100 

"This day, black omens threat the 

brightest fair 
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care; 



Some dire disaster, or by force, or sleight; 
But what, or where, the fates have wrapped 

in night. 
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's 

law, 105 

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw; 
Or stain her honor, or her new brocade; 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade; 
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; 
Or whether Heaven has doomed that 

Shock must fall. no 

Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge 

repair: 
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care; 
The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; 
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; 
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favorite lock; 
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 
To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, 117 
We trust th' important charge, the 

petticoat : 
Oft have we known that seven-fold fence 

to fail, 
Though stiff ^\'ith hoops, and armed with 

ribs of whale; 120 

Form a strong line about the silver bound, 
And guard the -wide circumference around. 
"Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large. 
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake 

his sins, 125 

Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins; 
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye; 
Gums and pomatums shall his fhght re- 
strain. 
While, clogged, he beats his silken -wings 

in vain; 130 

Or alum styptics with contracting power 
Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled 

flower; 
Or, as Lxion fixed, the wTetch shall feel 
The giddy motion of the whirling mill, 
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow. 
And tremble at the sea that froths below! " 
He spoke; the spirits from the sails 

descend; 137 

Some, orb in orb, around the nymph ex- 
tend; 
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; 
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear; 
With beating hearts the dire event they 

wait, 141 

Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate. 



POPE 



269 



Canto III 

Close by those meads, forever crowned 
with flowers, 

Where Thames with pride surveys his 
rising towers, 

There stands a structure of majestic frame, 

Which from the neighboring Hampton 
takes its name. 

Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall fore- 
doom 5 

Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; 

Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms 
obey. 

Dost sometimes counsel take — and some- 
times tea. 
Hither the heroes and the nymphs re- 
sort. 

To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; 10 

In various talk th' instructive hours they 
passed, 

Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; 

One speaks the glory of the British Queen, 

And one describes a charming Indian 
screen ; 

A third interprets motions, looks, and 
eyes; 15 

At every word a reputation dies. 

Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of 
chat, 

With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 
Meanwhile, declining from the noon of 
day, 

The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; 

The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, 

And wretches hang that jurymen may 
dine; 22 

The merchant from th' Exchange returns 
in peace. 

And the long labors of the toilet cease. 

Belinda novv^, whom thirst of fame invites, 

Burns to encounter two adventurous 
knights, 26 

At ombre singly to decide their doom; 

And swells her breast with conquests yet 
to come. 

Straight the three bands prepare in arms 
to join, 

Each band the number of the sacred nine. 

Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial 
guard 31 

Descend, and sit on each important card: 

First, Ariel perched upon a Alatadore, 

Then each, according to the rank they bore; 



For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient 

race, 35 

Are, as when women, wondrous fond of 

place. 
Behold four kings in majesty revered. 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; 
And four fair queens, whose hands sustain 

a flower, 
The expressive emblem of their softer 

power; 40 

Four knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty 

band. 
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their 

hand; 
And parti-colored troops, a shining train, 
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. 
The skilful nymph reviews her force 

with care: 45 

"Let spades be trumps!" she said, and 

trumps they were. 
Now moved to war her sable Matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the 

board. 50 

As many more Manillio forced to yield, 
And marched a victor from the verdant 

field. 
Him Basto followed, but, his fate more 

hard. 
Gained but one trump and one plebeian 

card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, 
The hoary majesty of spades appears, 56 
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed; 
The rest, his many-colored robe con- 
cealed. 
The rebel knave, who dares his prince 

engage, 
Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 60 
E'en mighty Pam, that kings and queens 

o'erthrew. 
And mowed down armies in the fights of 

Loo, 
Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, 
Falls undistinguished by the victor spade. 
Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; 
Now to the baron fate inclines the field. 66 
His warlike Amazon her host invades, 
Th' imperial consort of the crown of spades; 
The club's black tyrant first her victim 

died, 
Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous 

pride. 70 



270 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



What boots the regal circle on his head, 
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; 
That long behind he trails his pompous 

robe, 

And, of all monarchs, only grasps the 

globe? 

The baron now his diamonds pours 

apace; 75 

Th' embroidered king who shows but half 

his face, 
And his refulgent queen, with powers com- 
bined. 
Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder 

seen, 
With throngs promiscuous strew the level 
green. So 

Thus when dispersed a routed army runs. 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons. 
With like confusion different nations fly. 
Of various habit, and of various dye. 
The pierced battalions disunited fall, 85 
In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms 
them all. 
The knave of diamonds tries his wily 
arts, 
And wins (oh shameful chance!) the 

queen of hearts. 
At this the blood the virgin's cheek for- 
sook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; 90 
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching 

Just in the jaws of niin, and codille. 
And now (as oft in some distempered 

state) 
On one nice trick depends the general fate. 
An ace of hearts steps forth; the king un- 
seen 95 
Lurked in her hand, and mourned his 

captive queen: 
He springs to vengeance with an eager 

pace. 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. 
The nymph exulting fills with shouts the 

sky; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals 

reply. 100 

Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to 

fate. 
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 
Sudden, these honors shall be snatched 

away. 
And cursed forever this victorious day. 



For lo! the board with cups and spoons 
is crowned, 105 

The berries crackle, and the mill turns 
round; 

On shining altars of Japan they raise 

The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: 

From silver spouts the grateful liquors 
. glide, 

While China's earth receives the smoking 
tide. no 

At once they gratify their scent and taste. 

And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 

Straight hover round the fair her airy 
band; 

Some, as she sipped, the fuming Hquor 
fanned. 

Some o'er her lap their careful plumes dis- 
played, lis 

Trembling, and conscious of the rich 
brocade. 

Coffee (which makes the politician wise. 

And see through all things with his half- 
shut eyes) 

Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 

New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. 

Ah, cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too 
late, 121 

Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's 
fate! 

Changed to a bird, and sent to fht in air, 

She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair! 

But when to mischief mortals bend their 

will, 125 

How soon they find fit instruments of ill! 

Just then Clarissa drew with tempting 
grace 

A two-edged weapon from her shining 
case: 

So ladies in romance assist their knight. 

Present the spear, and arm him for the 
fight. 130 

He takes the gift with reverence, and ex- 
tends 

The little engine on his fingers' ends; 

This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 

As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her 
head. 

Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 

A thousand wings, by turns, blow back 
the hair; 136 

And thrice they twitched the diamond in 
her ear; 

Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe 
drew near. 



POPE 



271 



Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
The close recesses of the virgin's thought; 
As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, 141 
He watched th' ideas rising in her mind. 
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art, 
An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 
Amazed, confused, he found his power 
expired, 145 

Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired. 
The peer now spreads the glittering for- 
fex wide, 
T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. 
E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; 150 
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in 

twain 
(But airy substance soon unites again). 
The meeting points the sacred hair dis- 
sever 
From the fair head, forever, and forever! 
Then flashed the living lightning from 
her eyes, 155 

And screams of horror rend th' affrighted 

skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are 

cast, 
When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe 

their last; 
Or when rich China vessels, fallen from 

high,_ 
In glittering dust and painted fragments 
lie! 160 

"Let wreaths of triumph now my tem- 
ples twine," 
The victor cried; "the glorious prize is 

mine! 
While fish in streams, or birds delight in 

air, 
Or in a coach and six the British fair, 
As long as Atalantis shall be read, 165 

Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed. 
While visits shall be paid on solemn days. 
When niunerous wax-lights in bright order 

blaze, 
While nymphs take treats, or assignations 

give. 
So long my honor, name, and praise shall 
live ! 1 70 

What Time would spare, from steel re- 
ceives its date, 
And monuments, like men, submit to fate! 
Steel could the labor of the gods destroy. 
And strike to dust th' imperial towers of 
Troy; 



Steel could the works 01 mortal pride con- 
found, 175 

And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 

What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs 
should feel 

The conquering force of unresisted steel?" 

Canto IV 

But anxious cares the pensive nymph 

oppressed, 

And secret passions labored in her breast. 

Not youthful kings in battle seized alive, 

Not scornful virgins who their charms 

survive, 
Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, 
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss, 6 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, 
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinned 

awry. 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and de- 
spair, 
As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravished hair. 
For, that sad moment, when the sylphs 
withdrew, n 

And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 
Down to the central earth, his proper 
scene, 15 

Repaired to search the gloomy cave of 
Spleen. 
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the 
gnome. 
And in a vapor reached the dismal dome. 
No cheerful breeze this sullen region 

knows. 
The dreaded east is all the wind that 
blows. 20 

Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, 
And screened in shades from day's de- 
tested glare. 
She sighs forever on her pensive bed. 
Pain at her side, and Megrim^ at her head. 
Two handmaids wait the throne, alike 
in place, 25 

But differing far in figure and in face. 
Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid. 
Her wrinkled form in black and white 

arrayed; 
With store of prayers for mornings, nights, 

and noons 
Her hand is filled; her bosom with lam- 
poons. 30 

I headache. 



272 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



There Affectation, with a sickly mien, 
Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen; 
Practised to hsp, and hang the head aside. 
Faint into airs, and languishes with pride; 
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming 

woe, _ 35 

Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for 

show. 
The fair ones feel such maladies as these, 
When each new night-dress gives a new 

disease. 
A constant vapor o'er the palace flies. 
Strange phantoms rising as the mists 

arise ; 4° 

Dreadful, as hermits' dreams in haunted 

shades, 
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids: 
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling 

spires,-^ 
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple 

fires; 
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 45 
And crystal domes, and angels in ma- 
chines. 
Unnumbered throngs on every side are 

seen, 
Of bodies changed to various forms by 

Spleen. 
Here lixnng tea-pots stand, one arm held 

out, 
One bent; the handle this, and that the 

spout. 50 

A pipkin there, Uke Homer's tripod, walks; 
Here sighs a jar. and there a goose-pie 

talks ; 
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy 

w'orks. 
And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for 

corks. 
Safe passed the gnome through this 

fantastic band, 55 

A branch of heahng spleenwort in his 

hand. 
Then thus addressed the power: "Hail, 

wa3^ward queen! 
Who rule the sex, to fifty from fifteen; 
Parent of vapors'- and of female wit; 
Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit; 60 
On \-arious tempers act by various ways. 
Make some take physic, others scribble 

plays; 
Who cause the proud their visits to delay, 
And send the godly in a pet to pray. 

1 coils. - whims. 



A nymph there is that all thy power dis- 
dains, 65 
And thousands more in equal mirth main- 
tains. 
But oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a 

grace, 
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, 
Like citron- waters matrons' cheeks inflame, 
Or change complexions at a losing game; 70 
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, 
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds. 
Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude. 
Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude. 
Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, 75 
WTiich not the tears of brightest eyes 

could ease: 
Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin; 
That single act gives half the world the 

spleen." 
The goddess with a discontented air 
Seems to reject him, though she grants 

his prayer. 80 

A wondrous bag with both her hands she 

bmds. 
Like that where once Ulysses held the 

winds : 
There she collects the force of female lungs. 
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of 

tongues. 
A vial next she fills with fainting fears, 85 
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing 

tears. 
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away. 
Spreads his black wings, and slowly 

mounts to day. 
Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he 

found, 
Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. 
Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he 

rent, 91 

And all the furies issued at the vent. 
Belinda burns Avith more than mortal ire, 
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
"O wretched maid! " she spread her hands, 

and cried, 95 

(While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched 

maid!" replied) 
"Was it for this you took such constant 

care 
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? 
For this your locks in paper durance 

bound. 
For this with torturing irons wreathed 

around? 100 



POPE 



273 



For this with fillets strained your tender 

head, 
And bravely bore the double loads of 

lead? 
Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, 
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! 
Honor forbid! at whose unrivalled shrine 
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all, our sex re- 
sign. 106 
Methinks already I your tears survey. 
Already hear the horrid things they say, 
Already see you a degraded toast, 
~ And all your honor in a whisper lost! no 
How shall I, then, your helpless fame de- 
fend? 
'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend ! 
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, 
Exposed through crystal to the gazing 

eyes. 
And heightened by the diamond's circling 

rays, _ 115 

On that rapacious hand forever blaze? 
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus 

grow. 
And wits take lodgings in the sound of 

Bow: 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall. 
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish 

all!" 120 

She said; then raging to Sir Plume re- 
pairs, 
And bids her beau demand the precious 

hairs 
(Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane). 
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking 

face, 125 

He first the snuff-box opened, then the 

case. 
And thus broke out — "My lord — why — 

what the devil ! 
Zounds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you 

must be civil! 
Plague on't! 'tis past a jest — nay, prithee, 

pox! 
Give her the hair." — He spoke, and rapped 

his box. 130 

"It grieves me much," replied the peer 

again, 
"Who speaks so well should ever speak 

in vain. 
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
(Which never more shall join its parted 

hair. 



Which never more its honors shall re- 
new, 135 
Clipped from the lovely head where late 

it grew) 
That while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
This hand, which won it, shall forever 

wear." 
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph 

spread 
The long-contended honors of her head. 140 
But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears 

not so; 
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows 

flow. 
Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief 

appears. 
Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in 

tears; 
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping 

head, 145 

Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus 

she said: 
"Forever cursed be this detested day, 
Which snatched my best, my favorite curl 

away! 
Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been. 
If Hampton Court these eyes had never 

seen! 150 

Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 
By love of courts to numerous ills be- 
trayed. 
Oh, had I rather unadmired remained 
In some lone isle or distant northern land; 
Where the gilt chariot never marks the 

way, 155 

Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste 

bohea ! 
There kept my charms concealed from 

mortal eye. 
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 
What moved my mind with youthful lords 

to roam? 
Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at 

home! 160 

'Twas this, the morning omens seemed to 

tell: 
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch- 
box fell; 
The tottering china shook without a wind ; 
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most 

unkind! 
A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of 

fate, 165 

In mvstic visions, now believed too late! 



274 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



See the poor remnants of these slighted 

hairs ! 
My hands shall rend what e'en thy rapine 

spares ; 
These in two sable ringlets taught to 

break, 
Once gave new beauties to the snowy 

neck; 170 

The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone, 
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; 
Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears de- 
mands, 
And tempts once more, thy sacrilegious 

hands. 
Oh, hadst thou, cruel! been content to 

seize 175 

Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these! " 

Canto V 

She said: the pitying audience melt in 
tears. 

But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's 
ears. 

In vain Thalestris with reproach assails. 

For who can move when fair Behnda fails? 

Not half so fixed the Trojan could re- 
main, 5 

While Anna begged and Dido raged in 
vain. 

Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her 
fan; 

Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began: 
"Say, why are beauties praised and 
honored most. 

The wise man's passion, and the vain 
man's toast? 10 

Why decked with all that land and sea 
afford. 

Why angels called, and angel-like adored? 

Why round our coaches crowd the white- 
gloved beau.x, 

Why bows the side-box from its inmost 
rows? 

How vain are all these glories, all our 
pains, 15 

Unless good sense presers^e what beauty 
gains ; 

That men may say, when we the front- 
box grace, 

'Behold the first in virtue as in face!' 

Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day. 

Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age 
away, 20 



Who would not scorn what housewife's 
cares produce. 

Or who would learn one earthly thing of 
use? 

To patch, nay, ogle, might become a saint. 

Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. 

But since, alas! frail beauty must de- 
cay; 25 

Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn 
to grey; 

Since painted, or not painted, all shall 
fade. 

And she who scorns a man must die a 
maid; 

What then remains but well our power to 
use, 

And keep good humor still whate'er we 
lose? 30 

And trust me, dear, good humor can pre- 
vail. 

When airs, and flights, and screams, and 
scolding fail. 

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may 
roll; 

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins 
the soul." 
So spoke the dame, but no applause en- 
sued; ^ 35 

Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her 
prude. 

"To arms, to arms!" the fierce virago 
cries. 

And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 

All side in parties, and begin th' attack; 

Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whale- 
bones crack; 40 

Heroes' and heroines' shouts confusedly 
rise. 

And bass and treble voices strike the skies. 

No common weapons in their hands are 
found; 

Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal 
wound. 
So when bold Homer makes the gods 
engage, 45 

And heavenly breasts -v^dth human pas- 
sions rage; 

'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes 
arms; 

And all Olympus rings vnth. loud alarms: 

Jove's thunder roars, Heaven trembles all 
around, 

Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps 
resound: 50 



POPE 



275 



Earth shakes her nodding towers, the 

ground gives way, 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of 

day! 
Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's 

height 
Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view 

the fight: 
Propped on their bodkin-spears, the 

sprites survey 55 

The growing combat, or assist the fray. 
While through the press enraged Thales- 

tris flies, 
And scatters death around from both her 

eyes, 
A beau and witling perished in the throng, 
One died in metaphor, and one in song. 60 
"0 cruel nymph! a living death I bear," 
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his 

chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards 

cast, 
"Those eyes are made so killing" — was 

his last. 
Thus on Maeander's flowery margin lies 65 
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he 

dies. 
When bold Sir Plume had drawn 

Clarissa down, 
Chloe stepped in, and killed him with a 

frown ; 
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, 
But, at her smile, the beau re\dved again. 
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in 

air, 71 

Weighs the men's wits against the lady's 

hair; 
The doubtful beam long nods from side 

to side; 
At length the wits mount up, the hairs 

subside. 
See, fierce BeUnda on the Baron flies, 75 
With more than usual lightning in her 

eyes; 
Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to 

try, 
Who sought no more than on his foe to 

die. 
But this bold lord, \nth manly strength 

endued, 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued: 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils 

drew, 81 

A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; 



The gnomes direct, to every atom just, 
The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
Sudden with starting tears each eye o'er- 

flows, 85 

And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 
"Now meet thy fate," incensed Behnda 

cried. 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
(The same, his ancient personage to deck, 
Her great great grandsire wore about his 

neck, 90 

In three seal-rings; which after, melted 

down. 
Formed a vast buckle for his widow's 

gown; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it 

grew, 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; 
Then in a bodkin graced her mother's 

hairs, 95 

Which long she wore, and now Belinda 

wears.) 
"Boast not my fall," he cried, "insult- 
ing foe ! 
Thou by some other shalt be laid as 

low; 
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind: 
All that I dread is leaving you behind! 100 
Rather than so, ah, let me still survive. 
And burn in Cupid's flames — but bum 

alive." 
"Restore the lock!" she cries; and aU 

around 
"Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs re- 
bound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 105 
Roared for the handkerchief that caused 

his pain. 
But see how oft ambitious aims are 

crossed. 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is 

lost! 
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept 

with pain. 
In every place is sought, but sought in 

vain: no 

With such a prize no mortal must be 

blessed. 
So Heaven decrees! With Heaven who can 

contest? 
Some thought it mounted to the lunar 

sphere. 
Since all things lost on earth are treasured 

there. 



276 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous 

vases, 115 

And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer 

cases; 
There broken vows and death-bed alms 

are found, 
And lovers' hearts with ends of riband 

bound ; 
The courtier's promises, and sick man's 

prayers, 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of 

heirs; 120 

Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a 

flea. 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 
But trust the Muse— she saw it upward 

rise. 
Though marked by none but quick, poetic 

eyes: 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens 

withdrew, 125 

To Proculus alone confessed in view) 
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, j 
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright. 
The heavens bespangling with dishevelled 

light. 130 

The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies. 
And pleased pursue its progress through 

the skies. 
This the beau monde shall from the 

Mall survey. 
And hail with music its propitious ray; 
This the blest lover shall for Venus 

take, 135 

And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake. 
This Partridge soon shall view in cloud- 
less skies. 
When next he looks through Galileo's 

eyes; 
And hence th' egregious wizard shall fore- 

doojn 
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 140 
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn 

thy ravished hair. 
Which adds new glory to the shining 

sphere ! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can 

boast, 
Shall draw such envy as the lock you 

lost. 
For, after all the murders of your eye, 145 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall 

die; 



When those fair suns shall set, as set they 

must. 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust; 
This lock the Muse shall consecrate to 

fame, 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's 

name. 150 



AN ESSAY ON MAN 

From Book I 

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner 
things 
To low ambition, and the pride of kings. 
Let us (since life can little more supply 
Than just to look about us and to die) 
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; 5 
A mighty maze! but not without a plan; 
A wild, where weeds and flowers promis- 
cuous shoot; 
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. 
Together let us beat ^ this ample field. 
Try what the open, what the covert yield; 
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, ex- 
plore II 
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; 
Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies. 
And catch the manners living as they rise; 
Laugh where we must, be candid where 
we can; 15 
But vindicate the ways of God to man. 
I. Say first, of God above, or man be- 
low. 
What can we reason, but from v/hat we 

know? 
Of man, what see we but his station here, 
From which to reason, or to which refer? 20 
Through worlds imnumbered though the 

God be known, 
'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 
He who through vast immensity can 

pierce, 
See worlds on worlds compose one uni- 
verse, 
Observe how system into system runs, 25 
What other planets circle other suns, 
What varied being peoples every star, 
May tell why Heaven has made us as we 

are: 
But of this frame the bearings, and the 

ties. 
The strong connections, nice dependencies, 

1 scour, range through. 



POPE 



277 



Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 31 
Looked through? or can a part contain 

the whole? 
Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, 
And drawn, supports, upheld by God, or 

thee? 
II. Presumptuous man! the reason 

wouldst thou find, 35 

Why formed so weak, so little, and so 

blind? 
First, if thou canst, the harder reason 

guess, 
Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no 

less? 
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are 

made 
Taller or stronger than the weeds they 

shade ; 40 

Or ask of yonder argent fields above, 
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. 



Respecting man, whatever wrong we 
call. 

May, must be right, as relative to all. 

In human works, though labored on with 
pain, 

A thousand movements scarce one purpose 
gain; 

In God's, one single can its end produce; 55 

Yet serves to second too some other use. 

So man, who here seems principal alone, 

Perhaps acts second to some sphere un- 
known, 

Touches some wheel, or verges to some 
goal: 

'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 60 
When the proud steed shall know why 
man restrains 

His fiery course, or drives him o'er the 
plains ; 

When the dull ox, why now he breaks the 
clod. 

Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god; 

Then shall man's pride and dullness com- 
prehend 65 

His actions', passions', being's, use and 
end; 

Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled; 
and why 

This hour a slave, the next a deity. 

Then say not man's imperfect. Heaven 
in fault; 

Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: 70 



His knowledge measured to his state and 

place, 
His time a moment, and a point his space. 
If to be perfect in a certain sphere. 
What matter soon or late, or here or 

there? 
The blest to-day is as completely so, 75 
As who began a thousand years ago. 
III. Heaven from all creatures hides 

the book of fate, 
All but the page prescribed, their present 

state : 
From brutes what men, from men what 

spirits know: 
Or who could suffer being here below? 80 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and 

play? 
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery 

- food, 
And licks the hand just raised to shed his 

blood. 
Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given, 
That each may fill the circle marked by 

Heaven : 86 

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall. 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, 
And now a bubble burst, and now a 

world. 90 

Hope humbly then; with trembling 

pinions soar; 
Wait the great teacher Death; and God 

adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to 

know. 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
Man never is, but always to be, blest. 96 
The soul, uneasy and confined from home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored 

mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the 

wind; 100 

His soul proud science never taught to 

stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way; 
Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler 

Heaven ; 
Some safer world in depths of woods em- 
braced, 105 
Some happier island in the watery waste. 



278 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Where slaves once more their native land 

behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst 

for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire; 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, m 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
IV. Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of 

sense 
Weigh thy opinion against Providence; 
Call imperfection what thou fanciest 

such; 115 

Say, "Here he gives too little, there too 

much;" 
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,^ 
Yet cry, " If man's unhappy, God 's vm- 

just;" 
If man alone engross not Heaven's high 

care. 
Alone made perfect here, immortal there, 
Snatch from his hand the balance and the 

rod, 121 

Re-judge his justice, be the god of God. 
In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies; 
All quit their sphere, and rush into the 

skies. 
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes; 125 
Men would be angels, angels would be 

gods. 
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell. 
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel: 
And who but wishes to invert the laws 
Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause. 130 



IX. What if the foot, ordained the dust 

to tread. 
Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head? 260 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repined 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this general frame; 
Just 'as absurd, to mourn the tasks or 

pains, 265 

The great directing Mind of All ordains. 
All are but parts of one stupendous 

whole, 
Whose body nature is, and God the soul; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all 

the same. 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal 

frame, 270 



Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the 

trees, 
Lives through all life, extends through all 

extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates imspent, 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal 

part, _ _ 275 

As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart. 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns. 
To him no high, no low, no great, no 

small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals 

all. 280 

X. Cease then, nor order imperfection 

name: 
Our proper bUss depends on what we 

blame. 
Know thy own point: this kind, this due 

degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows 

on thee. 
Submit. — In this, or any other sphere, 285 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art, unknown to thee; 
All chance, direction, which thou canst not 

see; 290 

All discord, harmony not understood; 
All partial evil, universal good: 
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's 

spite, 
One truth is clear. Whatever is, is right. 



From EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT 

— Were there one whose fires 
True genius kindles, and fair fame in- 
spires. 
Blessed with each talent and each art to 

please, 195 

And born to write, converse, and live with 

ease; 
Should such a man, too fond to rule 

alone, 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the 

throne ; 
View him with scornful, yet with jealous 

eyes. 
And hate for arts that caused himself to 

rise; 200 



POPE 



279 



Damn with faint praise, assent with civil 
leer, 

And without sneering, teach the rest to 
sneer; 

Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike. 

Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; 

Alike reserved to blame, or to com- 
mend, 205 

A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; 

Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers be- 
sieged. 

And so obliging that he ne'er obliged; 

Like Cato, give his little senate laws. 

And sit attentive to his own applause, 210 

While wits and Templars every sentence 
raise, 

And wonder with a foolish face of praise — 

Who but must laugh, if such a man there 
be? 

Who would not weep, if Atticus were he! 



THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER 

Father of all ! in every age. 

In every clime adored. 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! 

Thou Great First Cause, least under- 
stood: 5 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that Thou art good. 

And that myself am blind; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill; 10 

And, binding nature fast in fate, 
Left free the human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do, 
This, teach me more than hell to shun, 15 

That, more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings Thy free bounty gives. 

Let me not cast away; 
For God is paid when man receives; 

T' enjoy is to obey. 20 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 

Thy goodness let me bound, 
Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 

When thousand worlds are round. 



Let not this weak, unknowing hand 25 
Presume Thy bolts to throw, 

And deal damnation round the land 
On each I deem Thy foe. 

If I am right. Thy grace impart, 

Still in the right to stay; 30 

If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 
To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride, 

Or impious discontent, 
At aught Thy wisdom has denied, 35 

Or aught Thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault I see; 
That mercy I to others show. 

That mercy show to me. 40 

Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
Since quickened by Thy breath; 

Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go. 
Through this day's life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot: 45 

All else beneath the sun, 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not; 

And let Thy will be done. 

To Thee whose temple is all space. 
Whose altar earth, sea, skies, 50 

One chorus let all being raise, 
All nature's incense rise! 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE 



loveliest village of the 
plenty cheered the 



Sweet Auburn! 

plain ; 
Where health and 

laboring swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms 

delayed : 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and 

C3.SCj 5 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could 

please, 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endeared each 

scene ! 



2So 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



How often have I paused on every charm, 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, lo 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topped the neigh- 
boring hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath 

the shade 
For talking age and whispering lovers 

made! 
How often have I blest the coming day, 15 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading 

tree, 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old sur- 
veyed; 20 
And many a gambol froHcked o'er the 

ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength 

went round. 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band in- 
spired; 
The dancing pair that simply sought re- 
nown 25 
By holding out to tire each other down; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. 
While secret laughter tittered round the 

place; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those 

looks reprove. 30 

These were thy charms, sweet village! 

sports like these. 
With sweet succession, taught even toil to 

please: 
These round thy bowers their cheerful 

influence shed: 

These were thy charms — but all these 

charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the 

lawn, 35 

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms 

withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is 

seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green: 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling 
plain. 40 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy 
way; 



Along the glades, a solitary guest. 

The hollow sounding bittern guards its 

nest; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing 

flies, _ 45 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the moulder- 
ing wall; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 

hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a 

prey, 51 

Where wealth accumulates, and men 

decay: 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may 

fade; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has 

made: 
But a bold peasantry, their country's 

pride, 55 

When once destroyed, can never be sup- 
plied. 
A time there was, ere England's griefs 

began. 
When every rood of ground maintained 

its man; 
For him light labor spread her wholesome 

store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no 

more : 60 

His best companions, innocence and 

health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling 

train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets 

rose, 65 

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp re- 
pose. 
And every want to opulence allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
These gentle hours that plenty bade to 

bloom. 
Those calm desires that asked but little 

room, 70 

Those healthful sports that graced the 

peaceful scene. 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the 

green; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 



GOLDSMITH 



281 



Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful i But on he moves to meet his latter end, 



hour, 



75 Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 



Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's \ Bends to the grave with unperceived de- 



power. 

Here, as I take my solitary rounds 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined 
grounds, 

And, many a year elapsed, return to view 

Where once the cottage stood, the haw- 
thorn grew, 80 
p' Remembrance wakes with all her busy 
train, 

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to 
pain. 
In all my wanderings round this world 
of care. 

In all my griefs — and God has given my 
share — 

I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me 
down ; 86 

To husband out life's taper at the close. 

And keep the flame from wasting by re- 
pose; 

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 

Amidst the swains to show my book- 
learned skill, 90 

Around my fire an evening group to 
draw. 

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 

And, as an hare whom hounds and horns 
pursue 

Pants to the place from whence at first 
she flew, 

I still had hopes, my long vexations 
past, _ 95 

Here to return — and die at home at last. 
O blest retirement, friend to life's de- 
cline. 

Retreats from care, that never must be 
mine. 

How happy he who crowns in shades like 
these 

A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 1 00 

Who quits a world where strong tempta- 
tions try. 

And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to 
fly! 

For him no wretches, born to work and 
weep. 

Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous 
deep; 

No surly porter stands in guilty state, 105 

To spurn imploring famine from the gate; 



cay. 
While resignation gently slopes the way; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the 

last. III 

His heaven commences ere the world be 

past! 
Sweet was the sound, when oft at even- 
ing's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and 

slow, 115 

The mingling notes came softened from 

below; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid 

sung. 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their 

• young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the 

pool. 
The playful children just let loose from 

school, 120 

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the 

whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant 

mind; — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the 

shade. 
And filled each pause the nightingale had 

made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 125 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the 

gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway 

tread. 
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy 

spring: 130 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for 

bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses 

spread, 
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till 

morn; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 135 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
Near yonder copse, where once the 

garden smiled. 
And still where many a garden flower 

srow? wild: 



282 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



There, where a few torn shrubs the place 

disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion 

rose. 140 

A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a 

year; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly 

race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to 

change his place; 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for 

power, 145 

By doctrines fashioned to the varying 

hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to 

prize, 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to 

rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant 

train; 
He chid their wanderings but relieved 

their pain: 150 

The long-remembered beggar was his 

guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged 

breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer 

proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims 

allowed; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to 

stay, 155 

Sat by the fire, and talked the night away. 
Wept o'er his wounds or, tales of sorrow 

done, 
Shouldered his crutch and showed how 

fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man 

learned to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 
Careless their merits or their faults to 

scan, 161 

His pity gave ere charity began. 
Thus to relieve the wretched was his 

pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's 

side; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt 

for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the 

skies. 



He tried each art, reproved each dull de- 
lay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the 

way. 170 

Beside the bed where parting life was 

laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dis- 
mayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his 

control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling 

soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch 

to raise, 175 

And his last faltering accents whispered 

praise. 
At church, with meek and unaffected 

grace. 
His looks adorned the venerable place; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double 

sway. 
And fools, who come to scoff, remained to 

pray. 180 

The service past, around the pious man, 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
Even children followed with endearing 

wile. 
And plucked his gown to share the good 

man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth ex- 
pressed; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares 

distressed: 186 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were 

given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in 

heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves 

the storm, igo 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds 

are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts 

the way. 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to 

rule, 19s 

The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to 

trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 200 



GOLDSMITH 



283 



Full well they laughed with counter- 
feited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 

Full well the busy whisper circling round 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he 
frowned. 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 205 

The love he bore to learning was in fault; 

rhe village all declared how much he 
knew : 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher 
too; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides 
presage, 

And even the story ran that he could 
gauge; 210 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 

For, even though vanquished, he could 
argue still; 

While words of learned length and thun- 
dering sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder 
grew, 215 

That one small head could carry all he 
knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 

Where many a time he triumphed is for- 
got. 
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on 
high, 

Where once the sign-post caught the pass- 
ing eye, 220 

Low lies that house where nut-brown 
draughts inspired. 

Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil 
retired, 

Where \'illage statesmen talked with looks 
profound. 

And news much older than their ale went 
round. 

Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 

1 he parlor splendors of that festive place : 

The- white-washed wall, the nicely sanded 
floor, 

The varnished clock that clicked behind 
the door; 

The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by 
day; 230 

The pictures placed for ornament and 
use, 

The twelve good rules, the royal game of 
goose; 



The hearth, except when winter chilled 
the day. 

With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel 
gay; 

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for 
show, 23s 

Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a 
row. 
Vain transitory splendors! could not all 

Reprieve the tottering mansion from its 
fall? 

Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 

An hour's importance to the poor man's 
heart. 240 

Thither no more the peasant shall repair 

To sweet oblivion of his daily care; 

No more the farmer's news, the barber's 
tale. 

No more the woodman's ballad shall pre- 
vail; 

No more the smith his dusky brow shall 
clear, 245 

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean 
to hear; 

The host himself no longer shall be found 

Careful to see the manthng bliss go round; 

Nor the coy maid, half willing to be 
pressed. 

Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud dis- 
dain, 

These simple blessings of the lowly train; 

To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 

One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Spontaneous joys, where nature has its 
play, 255 

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born 
sway; 

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 

Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 

But the long pomp, the midnight mas- 
querade. 

With all the freaks of wanton wealth ar- 
rayed — 260 

In these, ere triflers half their wish ob- 
tain. 

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; 

And, even while fashion's brightest arts 
decoy. 

The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who 
survey 265 

The rich man's joy increase, the poor's 
decay, 



284 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



'Tis yours to judge, how wide the hmits 

stand 
Between a splendid and an happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of 

freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her 

shore; 270 

Hoards even beyond the miser's wish 

abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world 

around. 
Yet count our gains! This wealth is but 

a name 
That leaves our useful products still the 

same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and 

pride 275 

Takes up a space that many poor sup- 
plied; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended 

bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken 

sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half 

their growth; 280 

His seat, where sohtary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the 

green : 
Around the world each needful product 

flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies; 
While thus the land adorned for pleasure 

all 285 

In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 
As some fair female unadorned and 

plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her 

reign, 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress 

supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her 

eyes ; 290 

But when those charms are past, for 

charms are frail. 
When time advances, and when lovers 

fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed: 295 
In nature's simplest charms at first ar- 
rayed. 
But verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; 



While, scourged by famine from the smil- 
ing land 

The mournful peasant leads his humble 
band, 300 

And while he sinks, without one arm to 
save. 

The country blooms — a garden and a 
grave. 
Where then, ah! where, shall poverty 
reside. 

To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 

If to some common's fenceless limits 
strayed 305 

He drives his flock to pick the scanty 
blade. 

Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth 
divide. 

And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
If to the city sped — what waits him 
there? 

To see profusion that he must not share; 310 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 

To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; 

To see those joys the sons of pleasure 
know 

Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 

Here while the courtier glitters in bro- 
cade, _ ^ 315 

There the pale artist^ plies the sickly trade ; 

Here while the proud their long-drawn 
pomps display. 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the 
way. 

The dome where pleasure holds her mid- 
night reign 

Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous 
train: 320 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing 
square, 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches 
glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er an- 
noy! 

Sure these denote one universal joy! 

Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn 
thine eyes 325 

Where the poor houseless shivering female 
lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 

Has wept at tales of innocence distressed ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the 
thorn: 330 



GOLDSMITH 



^85 



Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue, fled. 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her 

head, 
And, pinched with cold, and shrinking 

from the shower, 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless 

hour, 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335 
She left her wheel and robes of country 

brown. 
Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the 

loveliest train, — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger 

led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little 

bread ! 340 

Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary 

scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes 

between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps 

they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charmed 

before 345 

The various terrors of that horrid shore; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward 

ray. 
And fiercely shed intolerable day; 
Those matted woods, where birds forget 

to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 350 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuri- 
ance crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death 

around; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to 

wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless 

prey, 355 

And savage men more murderous still 

than they; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the 

skies. 
Far different these from every former 

scene. 
The cooling brook, the grassy vested 

green, 360 

The breezy co\'ert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless 

love. 



Good Heaven I what sorrows gloomed 

that parting day, 
That called them from their native walks 

away; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked 

their last, 366 

And took a long farewell, and wished in 

vain 
For seats like these beyond the western 

main. 
And shuddering still to face the distant 

deep, 
Returned and wept, and still returned to 

weep. _ 370 

The good old sire the first prepared to 

go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for other's 

woe; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the 

grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless 

years, 376 

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her 

woes, 
And blest the cot where every pleasure 

rose, 380 

And kissed her thoughtless babes with 

many a tear, 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly 

dear, 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend 

relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 
luxury! thou curst by Heaven's de- 
cree, 385 
How ill exchanged are things like these for 

thee! 
How do thy potions, vvith insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! 
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness 

grown, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 390 
At exexy draught more large and large 

they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unvneldly woe; 
Till sapped their strength, and e\-erA' part 

unsound, 
Down. dovMi, they sink, and spread a ruin 

round. 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Even now the devastation is begun, 395 
And half the business of destruction done; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I 

stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads 

the sail, 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 
Downward they move, a melancholy 

band, 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the 

strand. 
Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, 
And kind connubial Tenderness are there; 
And Piety with wishes placed above, 405 
And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest 

maid. 
Still first to fly where sensual joys in- 
vade; 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest 

fame; 410 

Dear charming nymph, neglected and de- 
cried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my 

woe. 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st 

me so; 
Thou guide by which the nobler arts 

excel, 415 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee 

well! 
Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be 

tried, 
On Torno's cUffs, or Pambamarca's side. 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 421 
Redress the rigors of the inclement clime; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive 

strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of 

gain; 
Teach him that states of native strength 

possessed, 425 

Though very poor, may still be very blest; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift 

decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away; 
While self-dependent power can time 

defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430 



From THE RETALIATION 

At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the 

last? 
Here, waiter, more wine! let me sit while 

I'm able. 
Till all my companions sink under the 

table; 20 

Then, with chaos and blunders encircling 

my head. 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of 

the dead. 
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to 

earth, 
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and 

wisdom with mirth; 
If he had any faults, he has left us in 

doubt, 25 

At least in six weeks I could not find 'em 

out; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be 

denied 'em, 
That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to 

hide 'em. 
Here lies our good Edmund, whose 

genius was such. 
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too 

much; 30 

Who, born for the universe, narrowed his 

mind. 
And to party gave up what was meant for 

mankind: 
Though fraught with all learning, yet 

straining his throat 
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend 

him a vote; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went 

on refining, 35 

And thought of convincing, while they 

thought of dining; 
Though equal to all things, for all things 

unfit; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a 

wit; 
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge dis- 
obedient ; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the 

expedient. 4° 

In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in 

place, sir. 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a 

razor. 



GOLDSMITH 



287 



Here lies David Garrick, describe me 

who can 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant 

in man; 
As an actor, confessed without rival to 

shine; 95 

As a wit, if not first, in the very first 

line; 
Yet with talents like these, and an excel- 
lent heart. 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art; 
Like an ill- judging beauty his colors he 

spread. 
And beplastered with rouge his own nat- 
ural red. 100 
On the stage he was natural, simple, 

affecting, 
'Twas only that when he was off he was 

acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his 

way. 
He turned and he varied full ten times a 

day: 
Though secure of our hearts, yet con- 
foundedly sick 105 
If they were not his own by finessing and 

trick; 
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his 

pack. 
For he knew when he pleased he could 

whistle them back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed 

what came. 
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for 

fame; no 

Till his relish grown callous, almost to 

disease, 
Who peppered the highest was surest to 

please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our 

mind: 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in 

kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so 

grave, 115 

What a commerce was yours, while you 

got and you gavel 
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts 

that you raised, 
When he was be-Rosciused, and you were 

bepraised ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel, and mix with the 

skies! 120 



Those poets who owe their best fame to 

his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he 

will; 
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise 

and with love. 
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys 

above. 



Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you 

my mind. 
He has not left a wiser or better behind. 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and 

grand; 
His manners were gentle, complying, and 

bland ; 140 

Still born to improve us in every part. 
His pencil our faces, his manners our 

heart; 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly 

steering. 
When they judged without skill he was 

still hard of hearing; 
When they talked of their Raphaels, 

Correggios, and stuff, 145 

He shifted his trumpet, and only took 

snuff. 



From THE CITIZEN OF THE 
WORLD 

Letter LV 

BEAU TIBBS AT HOME 

I am apt to fancy I have contracted a 
new acquaintance whom it will be no 
easy matter to shake off. My little beau 
yesterday overtook me again in one of 
the public walks, and slapping me on 
the shoulder, saluted me with an air of 
the most perfect familiarity. His dress 
was the same as usual, except that he 
had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier 
shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and [10 
his hat under his arm. 

As I knew him to be a harmless amusing 
little thing, I could not return his smiles 
with any degree of severity; so we walked 
fonvard on terms of the utmost intimacy, 
and in a few minutes discussed all the 
usual topics preliminary to particular 
conversation. 



288 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



The oddities that marked his character, 
however, soon began to appear; he [20 
bowed to several well-dressed persons, 
who, by their manner of returning the 
compliment, appeared perfect strangers. 
At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, 
seeming to take memorandums before 
all the company, with much importance 
and assiduity. In this manner he led 
me through the length of the whole walk, 
fretting at his absurdities, and fancying 
myself laughed at not less than him [30 
by every spectator. 

When we were got to the end of our 
procession, "Blast me," cries he, with 
an air of ^dvacity, "I never saw the Park 
so thin in my Ufe before! There's no 
company at all to-day; not a single face 
to be seen." — "No company!" inter- 
rupted I pee\'ishly; "no company where 
there is such a crowd? why, man, there's 
too much. What are the thousands [40 
that have been laughing at us but com- 
pany?" — "Lord, my dear," returned he, 
with the utmost good humor, "you 
seem immensely chagrined; but, blast me, 
when the world laughs at me, I laugh at 
the world, and so we are even. IVIy Lord 
Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, 
sometimes make a party at being ridicu- 
lous; and so we say and do a thousand 
things for the joke's sake. But I see [50 
you are grave, and if you are for a fine 
grave sentimental companion, you shall 
dine with me and my wife to-day; I must 
insist on 't. I'll introduce you to Mrs. 
Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications 
as any in nature; she was bred (but that's 
between ourselves,) under the inspection 
of the Countess of All-night. A charming 
body of voice; but no more of that, — she 
will give us a song. You shall see my [60 
little girl too, CaroHna Wilhelmina Amelia 
Tibbs, a sweet pretty creature! I design 
her for my Lord Drumstick's eldest son; 
but that's in friendship, let it go no farther: 
she's but six years old, and yet she walks 
a minuet, and plays on the guitar im- 
mensely already. I intend she shall be 
as perfect as possible in every accomplish- 
ment. In the first place, I'll make her a 
scholar: I'll teach her Greek myself, [70 
and learn that language purposely to 
instruct her; but let that be a secret." 



Thus saying, without waiting for a 
reply, he took me by the arm, and hauled 
me along. We passed through many 
dark alleys and winding ways; for, from 
some motives to me unknown, he seemed 
to have a particular aversion to every 
frequented street; at last, however, we 
got to the door of a dismal-looking [80 
house in the outlets of the town, where 
he informed me he chose to reside for the 
benefit of the air. 

We entered the lower door, which ever 
seemed to lie most hospitably open; and 
I began to ascend an old and creaking 
staircase, when, as he mounted to show 
me the way, he demanded, whether I 
delighted in prospects; to which answer- 
ing in the afifirmative, "Then," [90 
says he, "I shall show you one of the 
most charming in the world, out of my 
window; we shall see the ships sailing, 
and the whole country for twenty miles 
round, tip top, quite high. My Lord 
Swamp would give ten thousand guineas 
for such a one; but, as I sometimes pleas- 
antly tell him, I always love to keep my 
prospects at home, that my frieftds may 
visit me the oftener." [100 

By this time we were arrived as high as 
the stairs would permit us to ascend, till 
we came to what he was facetiously 
pleased to call the first floor down the 
chimney; and knocking at the door, a 
voice from within demanded, "Who's 
there?" My conductor answered that 
it was him. But this not satisfying the 
querist, the voice again repeated the 
demand; to which he answered louder [no 
than before; and now the door was opened 
by an old woman with cautious reluctance. 

When we were got in, he welcomed me 
to his house with great ceremony, and 
turning to the old woman, asked where 
was her lady? "Good troth," replied 
she, in a peculiar dialect, "she's washing 
your twa shirts at the next door, because 
they have taken an oath against lending 
out the tub any longer." — "My two [120 
shirts!" cried he in a tone that faltered 
with confusion, "what does the idiot 
mean?" — "I ken what I mean weel 
enough," replied the other; "she's wash- 
ing your twa shirts at the next door, 
because " — "Fire and fury, no more 



GOLDSMITH 



289 



of thy stupid explanations!" cried he; 
"go and inform her we have got company. 
Were that Scotch hag," continued he, 
turning to me, "to be for ever in my [130 
family, she would never learn politeness, 
nor forget that absurd poisonous accent 
of hers, or testify the smallest specimen 
of breeding or high life; and yet it is very 
surprising too, as I had her from a parlia- 
ment man, a friend of mine from the 
Highlands, one of the politest men in the 
world; but that's a secret." 

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs' 
arrival, during which interval I had [140 
a full opportunity of surveying the cham- 
ber and all its furniture, which consisted 
of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, 
that he assured me were his wife's em- 
broidery; a square table that had been 
once japanned; a cradle in one comer, a 
lumbering cabinet in the other; a broken 
shepherdess, and a mandarin without a 
head, were stuck over the chimney; and 
round the walls several paltry un- [150 
framed pictures, which, he observed, 
were all his own drawing. "What do 
you think, sir, of that head in the comer, 
done in the manner of Grisoni? there's 
the true keeping in it; it is my own face, 
and though there happens to be no like- 
ness, a Countess offered me a hundred 
for its fellow: I refused her, for, hang it, 
that would be mechanical, you know." 

The wife at last made her appear- [160 
ance, at once a slattern and a coquette; 
much emaciated, but still carrying the 
remains of beauty. She made twenty 
apologies for being seen in such odious 
dishabille, but hoped to be excused, as 
she had stayed out all night at the Gar- 
dens with the Countess, who was exces- 
sively fond of the horns. "And indeed, 
my dear," added she, turning to her 
husband, "his lordship drank your [170 
health in a bumper." "Poor Jack!" 
cries he, "a dear good-natured creature, 
I know he loves me. But I hope, my 
dear, you have given orders for dinner; 
you need make no great preparations 
neither, there are but three of us; some- 
thing elegant: — a little will do — a turbot, 

an ortolan, a " "Or what do you 

think, my dear," interrupts the wife, "of 
a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping [180 



hot, and dressed with a little of my own 
sauce?" "The very thing," replies he; 
"it will eat best with some smart bottled 
beer: but be sure to let us have the sauce 
his Grace was so fond of. I hate your 
immense loads of meat; that is country 
all over; extremely disgusting to those 
who are in the least acquainted with 
high life." 

By this time my curiosity began [190 
to abate, and my appetite to increase; 
the company of fools may at first make 
us smUe, but at last never fails of render- 
ing us melancholy. I therefore pretended 
to a prior engagement, and after having 
shown my respect to the house, accord- 
ing to the fashion of the English, by giv- 
ing the old servant a piece of money at 
the door, I took my leave: Mr. Tibbs 
assuring me that dinner, if I stayed, [200 
would be ready at least in less than two 
hours. 

Letter LXXVII 

A VISIT TO A SILK-MERCHANT 

The shops of London are as well fur- 
nished as those of Pekin. Those of 
London have a picture hung at their door, 
informing the passengers what they have 
to sell, as those at Pekin have a board 
to assure the buyer that they have no 
intention to cheat him. 

I was this morning to buy silk for a 
nightcap: immediately upon entering the 
mercer's shop, the master and his [10 
two men, with wigs plastered with powder, 
appeared to ask my commands. They 
were certainly the ciAolest people alive; 
if I but looked, they flew to the place 
where I cast my eye; every motion of 
mine sent them running round the whole 
shop for my satisfaction. I informed 
them that I wanted what was good, and 
they showed me not less than forty pieces, 
and each was better than the former, [20 
the prettiest pattern in nature, and the 
fittest in the world for nightcaps. "My 
very good friend," said I to the mercer, 
"you must not pretend to instruct me 
in silks; I kno^v these in particular to be 
no better than your mere flimsy Bungees." 
— "That may be," cried the mercer, 



290 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



who, I afterwards found, had never con- 
tradicted a man in his Hfe; "I cannot 
pretend to say but they may; but I [30 
can assure you, my Lady Trail has had a 
sack from this piece this very morning." — 
"But, friend," said I, "though my lady 
has chosen a sack from it, I see no neces- 
sity that I should wear it for a nightcap." 
— "That may be," returned he again, 
"yet what becomes a pretty lady, will 
at any time look well on a handsome 
gentleman." This short compliment was 
thrown in so very seasonably upon [40 
my ugly face, that even though I disliked 
the silk, I desired him to cut me off the 
pattern of a nightcap. 

While this business was consigned to 
his journeymen, the master himself took 
down some pieces of silk still finer than 
any I had yet seen, and spreading them 
before me, "There," cries he, "there's 
beauty; my Lord Snakeskin has bespoke 
the fellow to this for the birthnight [50 
this very morning; it would look charm- 
ingly in waistcoats." — "But I don't want 
a waistcoat," rephed I. "Not want a 
waistcoat!" returned the mercer, "then 
I would advise you to buy one; when 
waistcoats are wanted, you may depend 
upon it they will come dear. Always buy 
before you want, and you are sure to 
be well used, as they say in Cheapside." 
There was so much justice in his ad- [60 
vice, that I could not refuse taking it; 
besides, the silk, which was really a good 
one, increased the temptation; so I gave 
orders for that too. 

As I was waiting to have my bargains 
measured and cut, which, I know not 
how, they executed but slowly, during 
the interval the mercer entertained me 
with the modern manner of some of the 
nobility receiving company in their [70 
morning gowns; "Perhaps, sir," adds he, 
"you have a mind' to see what kind of 
silk is universally worn." Without waiting 
for my reply, he spreads a piece before 
me, which might be reckoned beauti- 
ful even in China. "If the nobility," con- 
tinues he, "were to know I sold this to 
any under a Right Honorable, I should 
certainly lose their custom; you see, my 
lord, it is at once rich, tasty, and quite [So 
the thing."—"! am no lord," interrupted 



I. — "I beg pardon," cried he; "but be 
pleased to remember, when you intend 
buying a morning gown, that you had an 
offer from me of something worth money. 
Conscience, sir, conscience is my way of 
dealing; you may buy a morning gown 
now, or you may stay till they become 
dearer and less fashionable; but it is not 
my business to ad\dse." In short, [90 
most reverend Fum, he persuaded me 
to buy a morning gown also, and would 
probably have persuaded me to have 
bought half the goods in his shop, if I 
had stayed long enough, or was furnished 
with sufficient money. 

Upon returning home, I could not help 
reflecting, with some astonishment, how 
this very man, with such a confined edu- 
cation and capacity, was yet capable [100 
of turning me as he thought proper, and 
moulding me to his inclinations! I knew 
he was only answering his own purposes, 
even while he attempted to appear solici- 
tous about mine: yet, by a voluntary 
infatuation, a sort of passion, compounded 
of vanity and good-nature, I walked into 
the snare with my eyes open, and put 
myself to future pain in order to give him 
immediate pleasure. The wisdom [no 
of the ignorant somewhat resembles the 
instinct of animals; it is diffused in but 
a very narrow sphere, but within that 
circle it acts with vigor, uniformity, and 
success. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) 

From THE RAMBLER 

No. 121. Tuesday, May 14, 1751. 

O imitator es, sennim pecusl 

Hor. 
Away, ye imitators, servile herd! 
Elphinston. 

I have been informed by a letter from 
one of the universities, that among the 
youth from whom the next swarm of 
reasoners is to learn philosophy, and the 
next flight of beauties to hear elegies and 
sonnets, there are many who, instead of 
endeavoring by books and meditation 



JOHNSON 



291 



to form their own opinions, content them- 
selves with the secondary knowledge 
which a convenient bench in a coffee [10 
house can supply; and, without any 
examination or distinction, adopt the 
criticisms and remarks which happen to 
drop from those who have risen, by merit 
or fortune, to reputation and authority. 

These humble retailers of knowledge 
my correspondent stigmatizes with the 
name of Echoes; and seems desirous that 
they should be made ashamed of lazy 
submission, and animated to attempts [20 
after new discoveries and original senti- 
ments. 

It is very natural for young men to be 
vehement, acrimonious, and severe. For, 
as they seldom comprehend at once all 
the consequences of a position, or perceive 
the difficulties by which cooler and more 
experienced reasoners are restrained from 
confidence, they form their opinions with 
great precipitance. Seeing nothing [30 
that can darken or embarrass the ques- 
tion, they expect to find their own opinion 
universally prevalent, and are inclined 
to impute uncertainty and hesitation to 
want of honesty rather than to knowledge. 
I may perhaps, therefore, be reproached 
by my lively correspondent, when it shall 
be found that I have no inclination to 
persecute these collectors of fortuitous 
knowledge with the severity re- [40 
quired; yet, as I am now too old to be 
much pained by hasty censure, I shall 
not be afraid of taking into protection 
those whom I think condemned without 
a sufficient knowledge of their cause. 

He that adopts the sentiments of an- 
other, w^hom he has reason to believe 
wiser than himself, is only to be blamed 
when he claims the honors that are not 
due but to the author, and endeavors [50 
to deceive the world into praise and vener- 
ation; for to learn is the proper business 
of youth; and whether w^e increase our 
knowledge by books or by conversation, 
we are equally indebted to foreign as- 
sistance. 

The greater part of students are not 
born with abilities to construct systems, 
or advance knowledge; nor can have any 
hope beyond that of becoming intelli- [60 
gent hearers in the schools of art, of being 



able to comprehend what others dis- 
cover, and to remember what others teach. 
Even those to whom Providence hath 
allotted greater strength of understand- 
ing, can expect only to improve a single 
science. In every other part of learning, 
they must be content to follow opinions 
which they are not able to examine; and, 
even in that which they claim as pe- [70 
cuharly their own, can seldom add more 
than some small particle of knowledge 
to the hereditary stock devolved to them 
from ancient times, the collective labor of 
a thousand intellects. 

In science, which, being fixed and 
limited, admits of no other variety than 
such as arises from new methods of dis- 
tribution, or new arts of illustration, the 
necessity of following the traces of [80 
our predecessors is indisputably evident; 
but there appears no reason why imagina- 
tion should be subject to the same re- 
straint. It might be conceived, that of 
those who profess to forsake the narrow 
paths of truth, every one may deviate 
towards a different point; since, though 
rectitude is uniform and fixed, obliquity 
may be infinitely diversified. The roads 
of science are narrow, so that they [90 
who travel them must either follow or 
meet one another; but in the boundless 
regions of possibility which fiction claims 
for her dominion, there are surely a 
thousand recesses unexplored, a thousand 
flowers unexhausted, combinations of im- 
agery yet tmobserved, and races of ideal 
inhabitants not hitherto described. 

Yet, whatever hope may persuade or 
reason evince, ex-perience can boast [100 
of very few additions to ancient fable. 
The wars of Troy, and the travels of 
Ulysses, have furnished almost all suc- 
ceeding poets \\ith incidents, characters, 
and sentiments. The Romans are con- 
fessed to have attempted little more 
than to display in their owm tongue the 
inventions of the Greeks. There is in all 
their writings such a perpetual recur- 
rence of allusions to the tales of the [no 
fabulous age, that they must be confessed 
often to want that power of gi^ing pleas- 
ure which novelty supplies; nor can we 
wonder that they excelled so much in 
the graces of diction, when we consider 



292 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



how rarely they were employed in search 
of new thoughts. 

The warmest admirers of the great 
Mantuan poet can extol him for little 
more than the skill with which he has, [120 
by making his hero both a traveller and a 
warrior, united the beauties of the Iliad 
and the Odyssey in one composition: 
yet his judgment was perhaps sometimes 
overborne by his avarice of the Homeric 
treasures; and, for fear of suffering a 
sparkling ornament to be lost, he has 
inserted it where it cannot shine with its 
original splendor. 

When Ulysses visited the infernal [130 
regions, he found among the heroes that 
perished at Troy, his competitor Ajax, 
who, when the arms of Achilles were 
adjudged to Ulysses, died by his own 
hand in the madness of disappointment. 
He still appeared to resent, as on earth, 
his loss and disgrace. Ulysses endeavored 
to pacify him with praises and submis- 
sion; but Ajax walked away without 
reply. This passage has always been [140 
considered as eminently beautiful ; be- 
cause Ajax, the haughty chief, the un- 
lettered soldier, of unshaken courage, of 
immovable constancy, but without the 
power of recommending his owti virtues 
by eloquence, or enforcing his assertions 
by any other argument than the sword, 
had no way of making his anger known 
but by gloomy suUenness and dumb 
ferocity. His hatred of a man whom [150 
he conceived to have defeated him only 
by volubility of tongue, was therefore 
naturally shown by silence, more con- 
temptuous and piercing than any words 
that so rude an orator could have' found, 
and by which he gave his enemy no op- 
portunity of exerting the only power in 
which he was superior. 

When iEneas is sent by Virgil to the 
shades, he meets Dido, the queen of [160 
Carthage, whom his perfidy had hurried 
to the grave; he accosts her with tender- 
ness and excuses; but the lady turns away 
like Ajax in mute disdain. She turns away 
like Ajax; but she resembles him in none 
of those qualities which give either dig- 
nity or propriety to silence. She might, 
without any departure from the tenor of 
her conduct, have burst out, like other 



injured women, into clamor, re- [170 
proach, and denunciation; but Virgil had 
his imagination full of Ajax, and therefore 
could not prevail on himself to teach 
Dido any other mode of resentment. 

If Virgil could be thus seduced by imi- 
tation, there will be little hope that com- 
mon wits should escape; and accordingly 
we find that, besides the universal and 
acknowledged practice of copying the 
ancients, there has prevailed in [180 
every age a particular species of fiction. 
At one time all truth was conveyed in 
allegory; at another, nothing was seen but 
in a vision; at one period, all the poets 
followed sheep, and every event produced 
a pastoral; at another, they busied them- 
selves wholly in giving directions to a 
painter. 

It is indeed easy to conceive why any 
fashion should become popular, by [190 
which idleness is favored and imbecility 
assisted; but surely no man of genius can 
much applaud himself for repeating a 
tale with which the audience is already 
tired, and which could bring no honor to 
any but its inventor. 

There are, I think, two schemes of 
writing on which the laborious wits of the 
present time employ their faculties. One 
is the adaptation of sense to all the [200 
rhymes which our language can supply 
to some word that makes the burden of 
the stanza; but this, as it has been only 
used in a kind of amorous burlesque, can 
scarcely be censured with much acrimony. 
The other is the imitation of Spenser, 
which, by the influence of some men of 
learning and genius, seems likely to gain 
upon the age, and therefore deserves to 
be more attentively considered. [210 

To imitate the fictions and sentiments 
of Spenser can incur no reproach, for 
allegory is perhaps one of the most pleas- 
ing vehicles of instruction. But I am 
very far from extending the same respect 
to his diction or his stanza. His style was 
in his own time allowed to be vicious, so 
darkened with old words and peculiarities 
of phrase, and so remote from common 
use, that Jonson boldly pronounces [220 
him to have written no language. His 
stanza is at once difi&cult and unpleasing; 
tiresome to the ear by its uniformity, 



JOHNSON 



293 



and to the attention by its length. It 
was at first formed in imitation of the 
ItaHan poets, without due regard to the 
genius of our language. The Italians have 
Httle variety of termination, and were 
forced to contrive such a stanza as might 
admit the greatest number of similar [230 
rhymes; but our words end with so much 
diversity, that it is seldom convenient for 
us to bring more than two of the same 
sound together. If it be justly observed 
by Milton, that rhyme obliges poets to 
express their thoughts in improper terms, 
these improprieties must always be multi- 
plied as the difficulty of rhyme is increased 
by long concatenations. 

The imitators of Spenser are in- [240 
deed not very rigid censors of themselves, 
for they seem to conclude that, when they 
have disfigured their lines with a few ob- 
solete syllables, they have accomplished 
their design, without considering that 
they ought not only to admit old words, 
but to avoid new. The laws of imitation 
are broken by every word introduced 
since the time of Spenser, as the character 
of Hector is violated by quoting Aris- [250 
totle in the play. It would indeed be 
difficult to exclude from a long poem all 
modern phrases, though it is easy to 
sprinkle it with gleanings of antiquity. 
Perhaps, however, the style of Spenser 
might by long labor be justly copied; 
but life is surely given us for higher pur- 
poses than to gather what our ancestors 
have wisely thrown away, and to learn 
what is of no value but because it has [260 
been forgotten. 



LETTER TO THE EARL OF 
CHESTERFIELD 

February 7, lyjj. 
To THE Right Honorable the Earl 
OF Chesterfield. 

MY LORD, 

I have been lately informed, by the 
proprietor of the World, that two papers, 
in which my Dictionary is recommended 
to the public, were wTitten by your Lord- 
ship. To be so distinguished, is an honor, 
which, being very little accustomed to 
favors from the great, I know not well 



how to receive, or in what terms to ac- 
knowledge. 

When, upon some slight encour- [10 
agement, I first visited your Lordship, 
I was overpowered, like the rest of 
mankind, by the enchantment of your 
address; and could not forbear to wish 
that I might boast myself Le vainqueur 
du vainqueur de la terre; — that I might 
obtain that regard for which I saw the 
world contending; but I found my at- 
tendance so little encouraged, that neither 
pride nor modesty would suffer me [20 
to continue it. When I had once ad- 
dressed your Lordship in public, I had 
exhausted all the art of pleasing which a 
retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. 
I had done all that I could; and no man 
is well pleased to have his all neglected, 
be it ever so little. 

Seven years, my Lord, have now past, 
since I waited in your outward rooms, 
or was repulsed from your door; dur- [30 
ing which time I have been pushing on 
my work through difficulties, of which it 
is useless to complain, and have brought 
it, at last, to the verge of publication, 
without one act of assistance, one word 
of encouragement, or one smile of favor. 
Such treatment I did not expect, for I 
never had a Patron before. 

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last ac- 
quainted with Love, and found him a [40 
native of the rocks. 

Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who 
looks with unconcern on a man struggling 
for life in the water, and, when he has 
reached ground, encumbers him with 
help? The notice which you have been 
pleased to take of my labors, had it been 
early, had been kind; but it has been de- 
layed till I am indififerent, and cannot 
enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot [50 
impart it; till I am known, and do not 
want it. I hope it is no ver}^ comical as- 
perity, not to confess obligations where no 
benefit has been received, or to be un- 
willing that the Public should consider 
me as o\^'ing that to a Patron, which 
Providence has enabled me to do for 
myself. 

Having carried on my work thus far 
with so little obligation to any favorer [60 
of learning, I shall not be disappointed 



294 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



though I should conclude it, if less be 
possible, with less; for I have been long 
wakened from that dream of hope, in 
which I oince boasted myself with so much 
exultation, 

My Lord, 
Your Lordship's most humble 
Most obedient servant, 

Sam. Johnson. 

LETTER TO JAMES MACPHERSON 

Mr. James Macpherson, 

I received your foolish and impudent 
letter. Any violence offered me I shall 
do my best to repel; and what I cannot 
do for myself, the law shall do for me. I 
hope I shall never be deterred from de- 
tecting what I think a cheat, by the 
menaces of a ruffian. 

What would you have me retract? 
I thought your book an imposture; I 
think it an imposture still. For this [lo 
opinion I have given my reasons to the 
public, which I here dare you to refute. 
Your rage I defy. Your abilities, since 
your Homer, are not so formidable; and 
what I hear of your morals inclines me to 
pay regard not to what you shall say, but 
to what you shall prove. You may print 
this if you will. 

Sam. Johnson. 

THE LIVES OF THE ENGLISH 
POETS 

From MILTON 

The English poems, though they make 
no promises of Paradise Lost, have this 
evidence of genius, that they have a cast 
original and unborrowed. But their 
peculiarity is not excellence: if they differ 
from verses of others, they differ for the 
worse; for they are too often distinguished 
by repulsive harshness; the combinations 
of words are new, but they are not pleas- 
ing; the rhymes and epithets seem to [lo 
be laboriously sought, and violently ap- 
plied. 

That in the early parts of his life he 
wrote with much care appears from his 
manuscripts, happily preserved at Cam- 
bridge, in which many of his smaller works 
are found as they were first written, with 



the subsequent corrections. Such reliques 
show how excellence is acquired: what we 
hope ever to do with ease, we may learn [20 
first to do with diligence. 

Those who admire the beauties of this 
great poet, sometimes force their own 
judgment into false approbation of his 
little pieces, and prevail upon themselves 
to think that admirable which is only 
singular. All that short compositions can 
commonly attain is neatness and elegance. 
Milton never learned the art of doing 
Httle things with grace; he overlooked [30 
the milder excellence of suavity and 
softness: he was a ''lion" that had no 
skill "in dandling the kid." 

One of the poems upon which most 
praise has been bestowed is Lycidas; of 
which the diction is harsh, the rhymes 
uncertain, and the numbers unpleasing. 
What beauty there is we must therefore 
seek in the sentiments and images. It 
is not to be considered as the effusion [40 
of real passion; for passion runs not after 
remote allusions and obscure opinions. 
Passion plucks no berries from the myrtle 
and ivy, nor calls upon Arethuse and 
Mincius, nor tells of "rough satyrs and 
fauns with cloven heel." Where there is 
leisure for fiction there is little grief. 

In this poem there is no nature, for 
there is no truth; there is no art, for there 
is nothing new. Its form is that of a [50 
pastoral, easy, vulgar, and therefore dis- 
gusting: whatever images it can supply 
are long ago exhausted; and its inherent 
improbability always forces dissatisfac- 
tion on the mind. When Cowley tells of 
Hervey that they studied together, it is 
easy to suppose how much he must miss 
the companion of his labors, and the 
partner of his discoveries; but what image 
of tenderness can be excited by these [60 
lines ! 

"We drove afield, and both together heard 
What time the grey fly winds her sultry 

horn. 
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews 

of night." 

We know that they never drove afield, 
and that they had no flocks to batten; 
and though it be allowed that the repre- 
sentation may be allegorical, the true 



JOHNSON 



295 



meaning is so uncertain and remote, that 
it is never sought because it cannot [70 
be known when it is found. 

Among the flocks and copses and 
flowers appear the heathen deities, Jove 
and Phoebus, Neptune and ^^olus, with 
a long train of mythological imagery, such 
as a college easily supplies. Nothing can 
less display knowledge, or less exercise 
invention, than to tell how a shepherd 
has lost his companion, and must now feed 
his flocks alone, without any judge [80 
of his skill in piping; and how one god 
asks another god what has become of 
Lycidas, and how neither god can tell. 
He who thus grieves will excite no sym- 
pathy; he who thus praises will confer no 
honor. 

This poem has yet a grosser fault. 
With these trifling fictions are mingled 
the most awful and sacred truths, such 
as ought never to be polluted with [90 
such irreverent combinations. The shep- 
herd likewise is now a feeder of sheep, 
and afterwards an ecclesiastical pastor, a 
superintendent of a Christian flock. Such 
equivocations are always unskilful; but 
here they are indecent, and at least ap- 
proach to impiety, of which, however, I 
believe the writer not to have been 
conscious. 

Such is the power of reputation [100 
justly acquired, that its blaze drives 
away the eye from nice examination. 
Surely no man could have fancied that 
he read Lycidas with pleasure, had he 
not know^n its author. 

Of the two pieces, L' Allegro and // 
Penseroso, I believe opinion is uniform; 
every man that reads them, reads them 
with pleasure. The author's design is 
not . . . merely to show how objects [no 
derive their colors from the mind, by 
representing the operation of the same 
things upon the gay and the melancholy 
temper, or upon the same man as he is 
differently disposed; but rather how, 
among the successive variety of appear- 
ances, every disposition of mind takes 
hold on those by which it may be gratified. 



By the general consent of critics, the 
first praise of genius is due to the [120 



writer of an epic poem, as it requires an 
assemblage of all the powers which are 
singly sufficient for other compositions. 
Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with 
truth, by calling imagination to the help 
of reason. Epic poetry undertakes to 
teach the most important truths by the 
most pleasing precepts, and therefore 
relates some great event in the most 
affecting manner. History must sup- [130 
ply the writer with the rudiments of 
narration, which he must improve and 
exalt by a nobler art, must animate by 
dramatic energy, and diversify by retro- 
spection and anticipation; morality must 
teach him the exact bounds and different 
shades of vice and virtue; from policy 
and the practise of life he has to learn 
the discriminations of character, and the 
tendency of the passions, either single [140 
or combined; and physiology must supply 
him with illustrations and images. To 
put these materials to poetical use, is 
required an imagination capable of paint- 
ing nature and realizing fiction. Nor is he 
yet a poet till he has attained the whole 
extension of his language, distinguished 
all the delicacies of phrase, and all the 
colors of words, and learned to adjust 
their different sounds to all the [150 
varieties of metrical modulation. 

The subject of an epic poem is naturally 
an event of great importance. That of 
Milton is not the destruction of a city, 
the conduct of a colony, or the foundation 
of an empire. His subject is the fate of 
worlds, the revolutions of heaven and 
of earth; rebellion against the Supreme 
King, raised by the highest order of 
created beings; the overthrow of their [160 
host and the punishment of their crime; 
the creation of a new race of reasonable 
creatures; their original happiness and 
innocence, their forfeiture of immortality, 
and their restoration to hope and peace. 

Of his moral sentiments it is hardly 
praise to affirm that they excel those of 
all other poets; for this superiority he was 
indebted to his acquaintance with the 
sacred writings. The ancient epic [170 
poets, wanting the light of Revelation, 



296 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



were very unskilful teachers of virtue: their 
principal characters may be great, but 
they are not amiable. The reader may 
rise from their works with a greater degree 
of active or passive fortitude, and some- 
times of prudence; but he will be able to 
carry away few precepts of justice, and 
none of mercy. 



In Milton every line breathes sane- [180 
tity of thought and purity of manners, 
except when the train of the narration 
requires the introduction of the rebellious 
spirits; and even they are compelled to 
acknowledge their subjection to God in 
such a manner as excites reverence, and 
confirms piety. 



Something must be said of his ver- 
sification. "The measure," he says, "is 
the English heroic verse Avithout [190 
rhyme." . . . 

"Rhyme," he says, and says truly, 
"is no necessary adjunct of true poetry." 
But perhaps of poetry as a mental opera- 
tion metre or music is no necessary ad- 
junct; it is however by the music of metre 
that poetry has been discriminated in all 
languages, and in languages melodiously 
constructed with a due proportion of 
long and short syllables, metre is [200 
sufficient. But one language cannot 
communicate its rules to another; where 
metre is scanty and imperfect some help 
is necessary. The music of the English 
heroic line strikes the ear so faintly that it 
is easily lost, unless all the syllables of 
every line co-operate together; this co- 
operation can only be obtained by the 
preservation of every verse unmingled 
with another, as a distinct system [210 
of sounds, and this distinctness is ob- 
tained and preserved by the artifice of 
rhyme. The variety of pauses, so much 
boasted by the lovers of blank verse, 
changes the measures of an English poet 
to the periods of a declaimer; and there 
are only a few skilful and happy readers 
of Milton, who enable their audience to 
perceive where the lines end or begin. 
"Blank verse," says an ingenious [220 
critic, "seems to be verse only to the eye." 



Poetry may subsist without rhyme, 
but English poetry will not often please; 
nor can rhyme ever be safely spared but 
where the subject is able to support itself. 
Blank verse makes some approach to that 
which is called the lapidary style; has 
neither the easiness of prose, nor the 
melody of numbers, and therefore tires 
by long continuance. Of the ItaHan [230 
writers without rhyme, whom Milton 
alleges as precedents, not one is popu- 
lar; what reason could urge in its defence, 
has been confuted by the ear. 

But, whatever be the advantage of 
rhyme, I cannot prevail on myself to wish 
that Milton had been a rhymer, for I 
cannot wish his work to be other than 
it is; yet, like other heroes, he is to be 
admired rather than imitated. He [240 
that thinks himself capable of astonish- 
ing, may write blank verse; but those 
that hope only to please, must condescend 
to rhyme. 

The highest praise of genius is original 
invention. Milton cannot be said to 
have contrived the structure of an epic 
poem, and therefore owes reverence to 
that vigor and amplitude of mind to which 
all generations must be indebted for [250 
the art of poetical narration, for the tex- 
ture of the fable, the variation of inci- 
dents, the interposition of dialogue, and 
all the stratagems that surprise and 
enchain attention. But of all the bor- 
rowers from Homer, Milton is perhaps the 
least indebted. He was naturally a thinker 
for himself, confident of his own abilities, 
and disdainful of help and hindrance; 
he did not refuse admission to the [260 
thoughts or images of his predecessors, 
but he did not seek them. From his 
contemporaries he neither courted nor 
received support; there is in his writings 
nothing by which the pride of other au- 
thors might be gratified, or favor gained; 
no exchange of praise, nor solicitation 
of support. His great works were per- 
formed under discountenance, and in 
blindness, but difficulties vanished at [270 
his touch; he was born for whatever is 
arduous; and his work is not the greatest 
of heroic poems, only because it is not the 
first. 



JOHNSON 



297 



From DRYDEN 

Criticism, either didactic or defensive, 
occupies almost all his prose, except 
those pages which he has devoted to his 
patrons; but none of his prefaces were 
ever thought tedious. They have not 
the formality of a settled style, in which 
the first half of a sentence betrays the 
other. The clauses are never balanced, 
nor the periods modelled; every word 
seems to drop by chance, though it [10 
falls into its proper place. Nothing is 
cold or languid; the whole is airy, ani- 
mated, and vigorous: w^hat is little, is 
gay; what is great, is splendid. He may 
be thought to mention himself too fre- 
quently; but while he forces himself upon 
our esteem, we cannot refuse him to stand 
high in his own. Everything is excused 
by the play of images and the sprightU- 
ness of expression. Though all is [20 
easy, nothing is feeble; though all seems 
careless, there is nothing harsh; and 
though since his earlier works more than 
a century has passed, they have nothing 
yet uncouth or obsolete. 

He who writes much will not easily 
escape a manner, such a recurrence of 
particular modes as may be easily noted. 
Dryden • is always "another and the 
same;" he does not exhibit a second [30 
time the same elegances in the same form, 
nor appears to have any art other than 
that of expressing with clearness what he 
thinks with vigor. His style could not 
easily be imitated, either seriously or 
ludicrously; for, being always equable and 
always varied, it has no prominent or 
discriminative characters. The beauty 
who is totally free from disproportion of 
parts and features, cannot be ridiculed [40 
by an overcharged resemblance. 

From his prose, however, Dryden de- 
rives only his accidental and secondary 
praise; the veneration with which his 
name is pronounced by every cultivator 
of English literature is paid to him as he 
refined the language, improved the senti- 
ments, and tuned the numbers of English 
Poetry. 

After about half a century of forced [50 
thoughts and rugged metre, some ad- 
vances towards nature and harmony had 



been already made by Waller and Den- 
ham; they had shown that long discourses 
in rhyme grew more pleasing when they 
were broken unto couplets, and that 
verse consisted not only in the number 
but the arrangement of syllables. 

But though they did much, who can 
deny that they left much to do? [60 
Their works were not many, nor were 
their minds of very ample comprehension. 
More examples of more modes of composi- 
tion were necessary for the establishment 
of regularity, and the introduction of 
propriety in word and thought. 

Every language of a learned nation 
necessarily divides itself into diction 
scholastic and popular, grave and familiar, 
elegant and gross; and from a nice [70 
distinction of these different parts arises 
a great part of the beauty of style. But 
if we except a few minds, the favorites 
of nature, to whom their original rectitude 
was in the place of rules, this delicacy of 
selection was little known to our authors: 
our speech lay before them in a heap of 
confusion, and every man took for every 
purpose what chance might offer him. 

There was therefore before the time [80 
of Dryden no poetical diction: no system 
of words at once refined from the gross- 
ness of domestic use, and free from the 
harshness of terms appropriated to par- 
ticular arts. Words too familiar, or too 
remote, defeat the purpose of a poet. 
From those sounds which we hear on 
small or on coarse occasions, we do not 
easily receive strong impressions, or 
delightful images; and words to which [90 
we are nearly strangers, whenever they 
occur, draw that attention on themselves 
which they should transmit to things. 

Those happy combinations of words 
which distinguish poetry from prose had 
been rarely attempted; we had few ele- 
gances or flowers of speech: the roses had 
not yet been plucked from the bramble, 
or different colors had not yet been joined 
to enliven one another. [loa 

It may be doubted whether Waller and 
Denham could have overborne the prej- 
udices which had long prevailed, and 
which even then were sheltered by the 
protection of Cowley. The new versifica- 
tion, as it was called, may be considered 



298 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



as owing its establishment to Dryden; 
from whose time it is apparent that Eng- 
Hsh poetry has had no tendency to re- 
lapse to its former savageness. [no 

From ADDISON 

At the school of the Chartreux . . . 
he . . . contracted that intimacy with Sir 
Richard Steele, which their joint labors 
have so effectually recorded. 

Of this memorable friendship the greater 
praise must be given to Steele. It is not 
hard to love those from whom nothing 
can be feared, and Addison never con- 
sidered Steele as a rival; but Steele lived, 
as he confesses, under an habitual [10 
subjection to the predominating genius 
of Addison, whom he always mentioned 
with reverence, and treated with obse- 
quiousness. 

Addison, who knew his own dignity, 
could not always forbear to show it, by 
playing a little upon his admirer; but he 
was in no danger of retort: his jests were 
endured without resistance or resentment. 

Before the Taller and Spectator, if [20 
the writers for the theatre are excepted, 
England had no masters of common life. 
No writers had yet undertaken to reform 
either the savageness of neglect or the 
impertinence of civility; to show when 
to speak, or to be silent; how to refuse, or 
how to comply. We had many books to 
teach us our more important duties, and 
to settle opinions in philosophy or politics; 
but an Arbiter elegantiariim, a judge of [30 
propriety, was yet wanting, who should 
survey the track of daily conversation 
and free it from thorns and prickles, 
which tease the passer, though they do 
not wound him. 

For this purpose nothing is so proper 
as the frequent publication of short papers, 
which we read not as study but amuse- 
ment. If the subject be slight, the trea- 
tise likewise is short. The busy may [40 
find time, and the idle may find patience. 

That he always wrote as he would 
think it necessary to write now, cannot 



be affirmed; his instructions were such as 
the characters of his readers made proper. 
That general knowledge which now cir- 
culates in common talk, was in his time 
rarely to be found. Men not professing 
learning were not ashamed of ignorance; 
and in the female world, any acquaint- [50 
ance with books was distinguished only 
to be censured. His purpose was to infuse 
literary curiosity, by gentle and unsus- 
pected conveyance, into the gay, the 
idle, and the wealthy; he therefore pre- 
sented knowledge in the most alluring 
form, not lofty and austere, but accessible 
and familiar. When he showed them 
their defects, he showed them likewise 
that they might be easily supplied. f6o 
His attempt succeeded; enquiry was 
awakened, and comprehension expanded. 
An emulation of intellectual elegance was 
excited, and from his time to our own, 
life has been gradually exalted, and con- 
versation purified and enlarged. 



As a describer of life and manners, he 
must be allowed to stand perhaps the first 
of the first rank. His humor, which, as 
Steele observes, is peculiar to himself, [70 
is so happily diffused as to give the grace 
of novelty to domestic scenes- and daily 
occurrences. He never "outsteps the 
modesty of nature," nor raises merriment 
or wonder by the violation of truth. His 
figures neither divert by distortion, nor 
amaze by aggravation. He copies life' 
with so much fidelity, that he can be 
hardly said to invent; yet his exhibitions 
have an air so much original that it [80 
is difficult to suppose them not merely 
the product of imagination. 

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be 
confidently followed. His religion has 
nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious: 
he appears neither weakly credulous nor 
wantonly sceptical ; his morality is neither 
dangerously lax, nor impracticably rigid. 
All the enchantment of fancy and all the 
cogency of argument are employed [90 
to recommend to the reader his real in- 
terest, the care of pleasing the x\uthor 
of his being. Truth is shown sometimes 
as the phantom of a vision, sometimes 
appears half- veiled in an allegory; some- 



JOHNSON 



299 



times attracts regard in the robes of fancy, 
and sometimes steps forth in the confi- 
dence of reason. She wears a thousand 
dresses, and all is pleasing. 

Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet. [100 

His prose is the model of the middle 
style; on grave subjects not formal, on 
light occasions not groveling; pure with- 
out scrupulosity, and exact without ap- 
parent elaboration; always equable, and 
always easy, without glowing words or 
pointed sentences. Addison never de- 
viates from his track to snatch a grace; 
he seeks no ambitious ornaments, and 
tries no hazardous inventions. His [no 
page is always luminous, but never blazes 
in unexpected splendor. 

It was apparently his principal endeavor 
to avoid all harshness and severity of 
diction; he is therefore sometimes verbose 
in his transitions and connections, and 
sometimes descends too much to the 
language of conversation; yet if his lan- 
guage had been less idiomatical it might 
have lost somewhat of its genuine [120 
Anglicism. What he attempted, he per- 
formed; he is never feeble, and he did not 
wish to be energetic; he is never rapid, 
and he never stagnates. His sentences 
have neither studied amplitude, nor af- 
fected brevity; his periods, though not 
diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. 
Whoever wishes to attain an English 
style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant 
but not ostentatious, must give his [130 
days and nights to the volumes of Addison. 



From POPE 

[Pope] professed to have learned his 
poetry from Dryden, whom, whenever 
an opportunity was presented, he praised 
through his whole life with unvaried 
liberality; and perhaps his character may 
receive some illustration if he be com- 
pared with his master. 



Pope was not content to satisfy; he 
desired to excel, and therefore always 
endeavored to do his best: he did not [10 
court the candor, but dared the judgment 



of his reader, and, expecting no indul- 
gence from others, he showed none to 
himself. He examined lines and words 
with minute and punctilious observation, 
and retouched every part with inde- 
fatigable diligence, till he had left nothing 
to be forgiven. 



In acquired knowledge, the superiority 
must be allowed to Dryden, whose [20 
education was more scholastic, and who 
before he became an author had been 
allowed more time for study, with better 
means of information. His mind has a 
larger range, and he collects his images 
and illustrations from a more extensive 
circumference of science. Dryden knew 
more of man in his general nature, and 
Pope in his local manners. The notions 
of Dryden were formed by compre- [30 
hensive speculation, and those of Pope 
by minute attention. There is more dig- 
nity in the knowledge of Dryden, and 
more certainty in that of Pope. 

Poetry was not the sole praise of either, 
for both excelled likewise in prose; but 
Pope did not borrow his prose from his 
predecessor. The style of Dryden is 
capricious and varied, that of Pope is 
cautious and uniform; Dryden obeys [40 
the motions of his own mind. Pope con- 
strains his mind to his own rules of com- 
position. Dryden is sometimes vehement 
and rapid; Pope is always smooth, uni- 
form, and gentle. Dryden's page is a 
natural field, rising into inequalities, and 
diversified by the varied exuberance of 
abundant vegetation; Pope's is a velvet 
lawn, shaven by the scythe, and levelled 
by the roller. [50 

Of genius, that power which consti- 
tutes a poet; that quality without which 
judgment is cold and knowledge is inert; 
that energy which collects, combines, 
amplifies, and animates — the superiority 
must, with some hesitation, be allowed 
to Dryden. It is not to be inferred that 
of this poetical vigor Pope had only a 
little, because Dryden had more; for 
every other writer since ]\Iilton must [60 
give place to Pope; and even of Dryden 
it must be said, that if he has brighter 
paragraphs, he has not better poems. 



300 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Dryden's performances were always hasty, 
either excited by some external occasion, 
or extorted by domestic necessity; he 
composed without consideration, and pub- 
lished without correction. What his 
mind could supply at call, or gather in 
one excursion, was all that he sought, [70 
and all that he gave. The dilatory cau- 
tion of Pope enabled him to condense his 
sentiments, to multiply his images, and 
to accumulate all that study might pro- 
duce, or chance might supply. If the 
flights of Dryden therefore are higher. 
Pope continues longer on the wing. If of 
Dryden's fire the blaze is brighter, of 
Pope's the heat is more regular and con- 
stant. Dr}^den often surpasses ex- [So 
pectation, and Pope never falls below it. 
Dryden is read with frequent astonish- 
ment, and Pope with perpetual delight. 



From- GRAY 

Gray's poetry is now to be considered, 
and I hope not to be looked on as an 
enemy to his name if I confess that I 
contemplate it with less pleasiure than his 
life. 



The Prospect of Eton College suggests 
nothing to Gray which ever\- beholder does 
not equally think and feel. His supplica- 
tion to Father Thames, to tell him who 
drives the hoop or tosses the ball, is [10 
useless and puerile. Father Thames has 
no better means of knowing than himself. 
His epithet "buxom health" is not ele- 
gant; he seems not to understand the word. 
Gray thought his language more poetical 
as it was more remote from common use: 
finding in Dr^'den "honey redolent of 
Spring," an expression that reaches the 
utmost limits of our language. Gray 
drove it a little more beyond com- [20 
mon apprehension, by making "gales" 
to be "redolent of joy and youth." 

Of the Ode on Adversity, the hint was 
at first taken from O Diva, gratum quae 
regis Antium; but Gray has excelled his 
original by the variety of his sentiments, 
and by their moral application. Of this 
piece, at once poetical and rational, I 



will not by slight objections violate the 
dignity. [30 

My process has now brought me to the 
"Wonderful Wonder of Wonders," the 
two Sister Odes; by which, though either 
\iilgar ignorance or common sense at first 
universally rejected them, many have been 
since persuaded to think themselves de- 
lighted. I am one of those that are will- 
ing to be pleased, and therefore would 
gladly find the meaning of the first stanza 
of The Progress of Poesy. [40 

Gray seems in his rapture to confound 
the images of "spreading sound" and 
"running water." A "stream of music" 
may be allowed; but where does music, 
however "smooth and strong," after 
ha\ing ^dsited the "verdant vales," "roll 
down the steep amain," so as that "rocks 
and nodding groves rebellow to the 
roar"? If this be said of music, it is 
nonsense; if it be said of water, it is [50 
nothing to the purpose. 

The second stanza, exhibiting Mars's 
car and Jove's eagle, is unworthy of 
further notice. Criticism disdains to 
chase a schoolboy to his commonplaces. 



The third stanza sounds big with Delphi, 
and Egean, and Ilissus, and Meander, 
and "hallowed fountain", and "solemn 
sound"; but in all Gray's Odes there is a 
kind of cumbrous splendor which we [60 
wish away. His position is at last false : in 
the time of Dante and Petrarch, from 
whom he derives our first school of poetry, 
Italy was overrim by "tyrant power" and 
"coward \dce"; nor was our state much 
better when we first borrowed the ItaUan 
arts. 



The Bard appears, at first \dew, to 
be ... an imitation of the prophecy of 
Nereus. ... [70 

To select a singular event, and swell it 
to a giant's bulk by fabulous appendages 
of spectres and predictions, has little 
difficulty, for he that forsakes the probable 
may always find the marvellous. And 
it has little use: we are affected only as 
we believe; we are improved only as 
we find something to be imitated or de- 



BOSWELL 



301 



dined. I do not see that The Bard pro- 
motes any truth, moral or political. [80 



These odes are marked by glittering 
accumulations of ungraceful ornaments: 
they strike, rather than please; the images 
are magnified by affectation; the language 
is labored into harshness. The mind of 
the writer seems to work with unnatural 
violence. "Double, double, toil and 
trouble." He has a kind of strutting 
dignity, and is tall by walking on tiptoe. 
His art and his struggle are too [90 
visible, and there is too little appearance 
of ease and nature. 

To say that he has no beauties, would 
be unjust: a man like him, of great learn- 
ing, and great industry, could not but 
produce something valuable. When he 
pleases least, it can only be said that a 
good design was ill directed. 

His translations of Northern and 
Welsh poetry deserve praise: the im- [100 
agery is preserved, perhaps often im- 
proved; but the language is unlike the 
language of other poets. 

In the character of his Elegy I rejoice to 
concur mth the common reader; for by 
the common sense of readers uncor- 
rupted with Hterary prejudices, after all 
the refinements of subtility and the dog- 
matism of learning, must be finally de- 
cided all claim to poetical honors. The [no 
Church-yard abounds with images which 
find a mirror in every mind, and with 
sentiments to which every bosom returns 
an echo. The four stanzas beginning 
" Yet even these bones," are to me original: 
I have never seen the notions in any other 
place; yet he that reads them here, per- 
suades himself that he has always felt 
them. Had Gray written often thus it 
had been vain to blame, and useless [120 
to praise him. 

JAMES BOSWELL (1740-1795) 
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 

From The Year 1763 

This is to me a memorable year; for in 
it I had the happiness to obtain the ac- 
quaintance of that extraordinary man 



whose memoirs I am now writing; an 
acquaintance which I shall ever esteem 
as one of the most fortunate circumstances 
in my life. Though then but two-and- 
twenty, I had for several years read his 
works with delight and instruction, and 
had the highest reverence for their au- [10 
thor, which had grown up in my fancy 
into a kind of mysterious veneration, by 
figuring to myself a state of solemn ele- 
vated abstraction, in which I supposed 
him to Uve in the immense metropolis of 
London. Mr. Gentleman, a native of 
Ireland, who passed some years in Scot- 
land as a player, and as an instructor in 
the English language, a man whose talents 
and worth were depressed by misfor- [20 
tunes, had given me a representation of 
the figure and manner of Dictionary 
Johnson! as he was then generally called; 
and during my first visit to London, 
which was for three months in 1760, Mr. 
Derrick, the poet, who was Gentleman's 
friend and countryman, flattered me with 
hopes that he would introduce me to 
Johnson, an honor of which I was very 
ambitious. But he never found an [30 
opportunity; which made me doubt that 
he had promised to do what was not in 
his power; till Johnson some years after- 
wards told me, "Derrick, Sir, might very 
well have introduced you. I had a kind- 
ness for Derrick, and am sorry he is dead." 

In the summer of 1761 Mr. Thomas 
Sheridan was at Edinburgh, and delivered 
lectures upon the EngHsh Language and 
Pubhc Speaking to large and respect- [40 
able audiences. I was often in his com- 
pany, and heard him frequently expatiate 
upon Johnson's extraordinar}- knowledge, 
talents, and virtues, repeat his pointed 
sajdngs, describe his particularities, and 
boast of his being his guest sometimes 
till two or three in the morning. At his 
house I hoped to have many opportunities 
of seeing the sage, as Mr. Sheridan oblig- 
ingly assured me I should not be dis- [50 
appointed. 

When I returned to London in the end 
of 1762, to my surprise and regret I found 
an irreconcilable difference had taken 
place between Johnson and Sheridan. A 
pension of two hundred pounds a year 
had been given to Sheridan. Johnson, 



302 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



who, as has been already mentioned, 
thought slightingly of Sheridan's art, 
upon hearing that he was also pen- [60 
sioned, exclaimed, "What! have they 
given him a pension? Then it is time 
for me to give up mine." Whether this 
proceeded from a momentary indignation, 
as if it were an affront to his exalted merit 
that a player should be awarded in the 
same manner with him, or was the sudden 
effect of a fit of peevishness, it was un- 
luckily said, and, indeed, cannot be justi- 
fied. Mr. Sheridan's pension was [70 
granted to him not as a player, but as a 
sufferer in the cause of government, when 
he was manager of the Theatre Royal in 
Ireland, when parties ran high in 1753. 
And it must also be allowed that he was 
a man of literature, and had considerably 
improved the arts of reading and speaking 
with distinctness and propriety. 



Johnson complained that a man who 
disliked him repeated his sarcasm to [80 
Mr. Sheridan, \\-ithout telling him what 
followed, which was, that after a pause 
he added, "However, I am glad that 
Mr. Sheridan has a pension, for he is a 
very good man." Sheridan could never 
forgive this hasty contemptuous expres- 
sion. It rankled in his mind; and though 
I informed him of all that Johnson said, 
and that he would be very glad to meet 
him amicably, he positively declined [90 
repeated offers which I made, and once 
went off abruptly from a house where he 
and I were engaged to dine, because he 
was told that Dr. Johnson was to be 
there. I have no sympathetic feeling 
with such persevering resentment. It is 
painful when there is a breach between 
those who have lived together socially 
and cordially; and I wonder that there 
is not, in all such cases, a mutual [100 
wish that it should be healed. I could 
perceive that Mr. Sheridan was by no 
means satisfied with Johnson's acknowl- 
edging him to be a good man. That could 
not soothe his injured vanity. I could 
not but smile, at the same time that I 
was offended, to observe Sheridan in the 
Life of Swift, which he afterwards pub- 
lished, attempting, in the writhings of 



his resentment, to depreciate Johnson, [no 
by characterising Mm as "A writer of 
gigantic fame, in these days of Httle men; " 
that very Johnson whom he once so 
highly admired and venerated. 

This rupture with Sheridan deprived 
Johnson of one of his most agreeable 
resources for amusement in his lonely 
evenings; for Sheridan's well-informed, 
animated, and bustling mind never suf- 
fered conversation to stagnate; and [120 
Mrs. Sheridan was a most agreeable 
companion to an intellectual man. She 
was sensible, ingenious, unassuming, yet 
communicative. I recollect, with satis- 
faction, many pleasing hours which I 
passed with her under the hospitable roof 
of her husband, who was to me a very 
kind friend. Her novel, entitled Memoirs 
of Miss Sydney Biddulph, contains an ex- 
cellent moral, while it inculcates a [130 
future state of retribution; and what it 
teaches is impressed upon the mind by a 
series of as deep distress as can affect 
humanity, in the amiable and pious 
heroine who goes to her grave unrelieved, 
but resigned, and full of hope of "heaven's 
mercy." Johnson paid her this high 
compliment upon it: "I know not, Madam, 
that you have a right, upon moral prin- 
ciples, to make your readers suffer so [140 
much." 

Mr. Thomas Davies the actor, who 
then kept a bookseller's shop in Russel- 
street, Co vent-garden, told me that 
Johnson was very much his friend, and 
came frequently to his house, where he 
more than once invited me to meet 
him; but by some unlucky accident or 
other he was prevented from coming to 
us. [150 

Mr. Thomas Davies was a man of good 
understanding and talents, with the ad- 
vantage of a liberal education. Though 
somewhat pompous, he was an entertain- 
ing companion; and his literary perform- 
ances have no inconsiderable share of 
merit. He was a friendly and very hos- 
pitable man. Both he and his wife (who 
has been celebrated for her beauty), 
though upon the stage for many years, [160 
maintained an uniform decency of char- 
acter; and Johnson esteemed them, and 
lived in as easy an intimacy with them 



BOSWELL 



?,o2, 



as with any family which he used to visit. 
Mr. Davies recollected several of John- 
son's remarkable sayings, and was one 
of the best of the many imitators of his 
voice and manner, while relating them. 
He increased my impatience more and 
more to see the extraordinary man [170 
whose works I highly valued, and whose 
conversation was reported to be so pe- 
culiarly excellent. 

At last, on Monday the i6th of May, 
when I was sitting in Mr. Davies's back- 
parlor, after having drunk tea with him 
and Mrs. Davies, Johnson unexpectedly 
came into the shop; and Mr. Davies hav- 
ing perceived him through the glass-door 
in the room in which we were sitting, [180 
advancing towards us, — he announced 
his awful approach to me, somewhat in 
the manner of an actor in the part of 
Horatio, when he addresses Hamlet on 
the appearance of his father's ghost: 
"Look, my Lord, it comes." I found 
that I had a very perfect idea of Johnson's 
figure, from the portrait of him painted 
by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after he had 
published his Dictionary, in the [190 
attitude of sitting in his easy chair in 
deep meditation; which was the first pic- 
ture his friend did for him, which Sir 
Joshua very kindly presented to me, 
and from which an engraving has been 
made for this work. Mr. Davies men- 
tioned my name, and respectfully intro- 
duced me to him. I was much agitated; 
and recollecting his prejudice against the 
Scotch, of which I had heard much, I [200 
said to Davies, "Don't tell where I come 
from." — "From Scotland," cried Davies, 
roguishly. "Mr. Johnson (said I), I do 
indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot 
help it." I am willing to flatter myself 
that I meant this as light pleasantry to 
soothe and conciliate him, and not as an 
humiliating abasement at the expense of 
my country. But however that might 
be, this speech was somewhat un- [210 
lucky; for with that quickness of wit for 
which he was so remarkable, he seized 
the expression "come from Scotland," 
which I used in the sense of being of that 
country; and, as if I had said that I had 
come away from it, or left it, retorted, 
"That, Sir, I find, is what a very great 



many of your countrymen cannot help." 
This stroke stunned me a good deal; and 
when we had sat down, I felt myself [220 
not a little embarrassed, and apprehen- 
sive of what might come next. He then 
addressed himself to Davies: "What do 
you think of Garrick? He has refused me 
an order for the play for Miss WilHams, 
because he knows the house will be full, 
and that an order would be worth three 
shilUngs." Eager to take any opening 
to get into conversation with him, I ven- 
tured to say, "Oh, Sir, I cannot think [230 
Mr. Garrick would grudge such a trifle to 
you." "Sir, (said he, with a stern look,) 
I have known David Garrick longer than 
you have done: and I know no right you 
have to talk to me on the subject." Per- 
haps I deserved this check; for it was 
rather presumptuous in me, an entire 
stranger, to express any doubt of the 
justice of his animadversion upon his 
old acquaintance and pupil. I now [240 
felt myself much mortified, and began to 
think that the hope which I had long 
indulged of obtaining his acquaintance 
was blasted. And, in truth, had not 
my ardor been uncommonly strong, and 
my resolution uncommonly persevering, 
so rough a reception might have deterred 
me for ever from making any further 
attempts. Fortunately, however, I re- 
mained upon the field not wholly dis- [250 
comfited; and was soon rewarded by 
hearing some of his conversation. 



I was highly pleased with the extraor- 
dinary vigor of his conversation, and re- 
gretted that I was dra"v\Ti away from it 
by an engagement at another place. I 
had, for a part of the evening, been left 
alone with him, and had ventured to 
make an observation now and then, 
which he received very ci\dlly; so [260 
that I was satisfied that though there 
was a roughness in his manner, there was 
no ill-nature in his disposition. Da\des 
followed me to the door, and when I 
complained to him a Uttle of the hard 
blows which the great man had given 
me, he kindly took upon him to console 
me by sajdng, "Don't be uneasy. I can 
see he likes you very well." 



304 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



A few days afterwards I called on [270 
Davies, and asked him if he thought I 
might take the liberty of waiting on Mr. 
Johnson at his chambers in the Temple. 
He said I certainly might, and that Mr. 
Johnson would take it as a compliment. 
So on Tuesday the 24th of May, after 
having been enhvened by the witty sallies 
of Messieurs Thornton, Wilkes, Churchill, 
and Lloyd, with whom I had passed the 
morning, I boldly repaired to Johnson. [280 
His chambers were on the first floor of 
No. I, Inner-Temple-lane, and I entered 
them with an impression given me by the 
Reverend Dr. Blair, of Edinburgh, who 
had been introduced to him not long 
before, and described his having "found 
the Giant in his den;" an expression 
which, when I came to be pretty well 
acquainted with. Johnson, I repeated to 
him, and he was diverted at this pic- [290 
turesque account of himself. Dr. Blair 
had been presented to him by Dr. James 
Fordyce. At this time the controversy 
concerning the pieces published by Mr. 
James Macpherson, as translations of 
Ossian, was at its height. Johnson had 
all along denied their authenticity; and, 
what was still more provoking to their 
admirers, maintained that they had no 
merit. The subject having been in- [300 
troduced by Dr. Fordyce, Dr. Blair, 
relying on the internal evidence of their 
antiquity, asked Dr. Johnson whether he 
thought any man of a modern age could 
have WTitten such poems? Johnson re- 
plied, "Yes, Sir; many men, many women, 
and many children." Johnson at this 
time, did not know that Dr. Blair had 
just published a Dissertation, not only 
defending their authenticity, but seri- [310 
ously ranking them with the poems of 
Homer and Virgil; and when he was 
afterwards informed of this circumstance, 
he expressed some displeasure at Dr. 
Fordyce's having suggested the topic, 
and said, "I am not sorry that they got 
thus much for their pains. Sir, it was 
like leading one to talk of a book, when 
the author is concealed behind the door." 

He received me very courteously: [320 
but, it must be confessed, that his apart- 
ment, and furniture, and morning dress, 
were sufficiently uncouth. His brown 



suit of clothes looked very rusty; he had 
on a little old shrivelled unpowdered wig, 
which was too small for his head ; his shirt- 
neck and knees of his breeches were loose; 
his black worsted stockings ill drawn up; 
and he had a pair of unbuckled shoes by 
way of slippers. But all these slovenly [330 
particularities were forgotten the moment 
that he began to talk. Some gentlemen, 
whom I do not recollect, were sitting 
with him; and when they went away, I 
also rose; but he said to me, "Nay, don't 
go." — "Sir (said I), I am afraid that I 
intrude upon you. It is benevolent to 
allow me to sit and hear you." He seemed 
pleased with this compliment, which I 
sincerely paid him, and answered, [340 
"Sir, I am obliged to any man who 
visits me." — I have preserved the fol- 
lowing short minute of what passed this 
day: — 

"Madness frequently discovers itself 
merely by unnecessary deviation from 
the usual modes of the world. My poor 
friend Smart showed the disturbance of 
his mind, by falling upon his knees, and 
sajdng his prayers in the street, or in [350 
any other unusual place. Now although, 
rationally speaking, it is greater madness 
not to pray at all, than to pray as Smart 
did, I am afraid there are so many who 
do not pray, that their imderstanding is 
not called in question." 

Concerning this imfortunate poet, Chris- 
topher Smart, who was confined in a mad- 
house, he had, at another time, the follow- 
ing conversation with Dr. Burney: — [360 
BuRNEY. "How does poor Smart do, 
Sir; is he likely to recover?" Johnson. 
"It seems as if his mind had ceased to 
struggle with the disease; for he grows 
fat upon it." Burney. "Perhaps, Sir, 
that may be from want of exercise." 
Johnson. "No, Sir; he has partly as 
much exercise as he used to have, for he 
digs in the garden. Indeed, before his 
confinement, he used for exercise to [370 
walk to the alehouse; but he was carried 
back again. I did not think he ought to 
be shut up. His infirmities were not 
noxious to society. He insisted on people 
praying with him; and I'd as lief pray 
with Kit Smart as any one else. Another 
charge was, that he did not love clean 



BOSWELL 



305 



linen; and I have no passion for it."' 
Johnson continued. "Mankind have a 
great aversion to intellectual labor; [380 
but even supposing knowledge to be easily 
attainable, more people would be content 
to be ignorant than would take even a 
little trouble to acquire it. 

"The morality of an action depends on 
the motive from which we act. If I fling 
half a crown to a beggar with intention 
to break his head, and he picks it up and 
buys victuals with it, the physical effect 
is good; but, with respect to me, the [390 
action is very wrong. So, religious exer- 
cises, if not performed with an intention 
to please God, avail us nothing. As our 
Savior says of those who perform them 
from other motives, 'Verily they have 
their reward.' 

"The Christian religion has very strong 
evidences. It, indeed, appears in some 
degree strange to reason; but in History 
we have undoubted facts, against [400 
which, in reasoning a priori, we have 
more arguments than we have for them; 
but then, testimony has great weight, and 
casts the balance." . . . 

Talking pf Garrick, he said, "He is 
the first man in the world for sprightly 
conversation." 

When I rose a second time, he again 
pressed me to stay, which I did. 

He told me, that he generally went [410 
abroad at four in the afternoon, and sel- 
dom came home till two in the morning. 
I took the liberty to ask if he did not think 
it wrong to live thus, and not make more 
use of his great talents. He owned it was 
a bad habit. On reviewing, at the dis- 
tance of many years, my journal of this 
period, I wonder how, at my first visit, I 
ventured to talk to him so freely, and 
that he bore it with so much indul- [420 
gence. 

Before we parted, he was so good as 
to promise to favor me \dth. his company 
one evening at my lodgings: and, as I took 
my leave, shook me cordially by the hand. 
It is almost needless to add, that I felt 
no little elation at ha\dng now so happily 
established an acquaintance of which I 
had been so long ambitious. 

My readers will, I trust, excuse me [430 
for being thus minutely circumstantial. 



when it is considered that the acquaintance 
of Dr. Johnson was to me a most valuable 
acquisition, and laid the foundation of 
whatever instruction and entertainment 
they may receive from my collections 
concerning the great subject of the work 
which they are now perusing. 

I did not visit him again till Monday, 
June 13, at which time I recollect [440 
no part of his conversation, except that 
when I told him I had been to see Johnson 
ride upon three horses, he said, "Such a 
man, Sir, should be encouraged; for his 
performances show the extent of the 
human power in one instance, and thus 
tend to raise our opinion of the faculties of 
man. He shows what may be attained 
by persevering application; so that every 
man may hope, that by giving as [450 
much application, although perhaps he 
may never ride three horses at a time, 
or dance upon a wire, yet he may be 
equally expert in whatever profession he 
has chosen to pursue." 

He again shook me by the hand at 
parting, and asked me why I did not 
come oftener to him. Trusting that I 
was now in his good graces, I answered, 
that he had not given me much [460 
encouragement, and reminded him of 
the check I had received from him at 
our first interview. "Poh, poh! (said 
he, with a complacent smile,) never 
mind these things. Come to me as 
often as you can. I shall be glad to see 
you." 

I had learned that his place of frequent 
resort was the Mitre tavern in Fleet- 
street, where he loved to sit up late, [470 
and I begged I might be allowed to pass 
an evening with him there soon, which 
he promised I should. A few days after- 
Avards I met him near Temple-bar, about 
one o'clock in the morning, and asked 
him if he would then go to the Mitre. 
"Sir (said he), it is too late; they won't 
let us in. But I'll go with you another 
night with all my heart." 

A revolution of some importance [480 
in my plan of life had just taken place; 
for instead of procuring a commission in 
the foot-guards, which was my own in- 
clination, I had, in compliance with my 
father's wishes, agreed to study the law, 



?o6 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



and was soon to set out for Utrecht, to 
hear the lectures of an excellent Civilian 
in that University, and then to proceed 
on my t^a^■els. Though very desirous of 
obtaining Dr. Johnson's ad^'ice and [400 
instructions on the mode of pursuing my 
studies, I -was at this time so occupied, 
shall I call it? or so dissipated, by the 
amusements of London, that our next 
meeting was not till Saturday, June 25, 
when happening to dine at Clifton's 
eating-house, in Butcher-row, I was sur- 
prised to perceive Johnson come in and 
take his seat at another table. The 
mode of dining, or rather being fed, [500 
at such houses in London, is well known 
to many to be particularly unsocial, as 
there is no Ordinary, or united company, 
but each person has his own mess, and is 
under no obligation to hold any inter- 
course with any one. A liberal and full- 
minded man. however, who loves to talk, 
will break through this churlish and un- 
social restraint. Johnson and an Irish 
gentleman got into a dispute concern- [510 
ing the cause of some part of mankind 
being black. "Why, Sir (said Johnson), 
it has been accounted for in three ways: 
either by supposing that they are the pos- 
terity of Ham, who was cursed; or that 
God at first created two kinds of men, 
one black and another white; or that by 
the heat of the sun the skin is scorched, 
and so acquires a sooty hue. This matter 
has been much canvassed among [520 
naturalists, but has never been brought 
to any certain issue." What the Irish- 
man said is totally obliterated from my 
mind; but I remember that he became 
wery warm and intemperate in his ex- 
pressions: upon which Johnson rose, and 
quietly walked away. When he had 
retired, his antagonist took his revenge, 
as he thought, by saying. ''He has a most 
ungainly figure, and an affectation [530 
of pomposity, unworthy of a man of 
genius." 

Johnson had not obser\-ed that I was 
in the room. I followed him, however, 
and he agreed to meet me in the evening 
at the Alitre. I called on him. and we 
went thither at nine. We had a good 
supper, and port wine, of which he then 
sometimes drank a bottle. The orthodox 



high-church sound of the Mitre, — [540 
the figure and manner of the celebrated 
Samuel Johnson, — the extraordinary 
power and precision of his conversation, 
and the pride arising from finding myself 
admitted as his companion, produced a 
variety of sensations, and a pleasing ele- 
vation of mind beyond what I had ever 
before experienced. I find in my Journal 
the following minute of our conversation, 
which, though it will give but a very [550 
faint notion of what passed, is, in some 
degree a valuable record; and it will be 
curious in this \iew, as showing how 
habitual to his mind were some opinions 
which appear in his works. 

"CoUey Cibber, Sir, was by no means a 
blockhead; but by arrogatmg to himself 
too much, he was in danger of losing that 
degree of estimation to which he was 
entitled. His friends gave out that [560 
he intended his birth-day Odes should be 
bad: but that was not the case. Sir; for 
he kept them many months by him, and 
a few years before he died he showed me 
one of them, with great solicitude to 
render it as perfect as might be, and I 
made some corrections, to which he was 
not very willing to submit. I remember 
the following couplet in allusion to the 
King and himself: [570 

' Perched on the eagle's soaring wing. 
The lowly linnet loves to sing.' 

Sir, he had heard something of the fabu- 
lous tale of the wren sitting upon the 
eagle's wing, and he had applied it to a 
linnet. Cibber's familiar style, however, 
was better than that which Whitehead 
has assumed. Grand nonsense is insup- 
portable. Whitehead is but a little man 



to inscribe verses to players.' 



I580 



I did not presume to controvert this 
censure, which was tinctured with his 
prejudice against players, but I could not 
help thinking that a dramatic poet might 
^\ith propriety pay a compliment to an 
eminent performer, as Whitehead has 
ver}- happily done in his verses to JNIr. 
Garrick. 

"Sir, I do not think Gray a first-rate 
poet. He has not a bold imagination, [590 
nor much command of words. The ob- 
scuritv in which he has in^•olved himself 



BOSWELL 



307 



will not persuade us that he is sublime. 
His Elegy in a church-yard has a happy 
selection of images, but I don't like what 
are called his great things. His ode 
which begins 

' Ruin seize thee, ruthless King, 
Confusion on thy banners wait ! ' 

has been celebrated for its abruptness, [600 
and plunging into the subject all at once. 
But such arts as these have no merit, 
unless when they are original. We ad- 
mire them only once; and this abruptness 
has nothing new in it. We have had 
it often before. Nay, we have it in the 
old song of Johnny Armstrong: 

' Is there ever a man in all Scotland, 
From the highest estate to the lowest 
degree, &c.' 

And then, Sir, [610 

'Yes, there is a man in Westmoreland, 
And Johnny Armstrong they do him call. ' 

There, now, you plunge at once into the 
subject. You have no previous narration 
to lead you to it. — The two next lines in 
that Ode are, I think, very good: 

'Though fanned by conquest's crimson 

wing. 
They mock the air with idle state.' " 

Here let it be observed, that although 
his opinion of Gray's poetry was [620 
widely different from mine, and I believe 
from that of most men of taste, by whom 
it is with justice highly admired, there is 
certainly much absurdity in the clamor 
which has been raised, as if he had been 
culpably injurious to the merit of that 
bard, and had been actuated by envy. 
Alas! ye little short-sighted critics, could 
Johnson be envious of the talents of any 
of his contemporaries? That his opin- [630 
ion on this subject was what in private 
and in public he uniformly expressed, re- 
gardless of what others might think, we 
may wonder, and perhaps regret; but it is 
shallow and unjust to charge him with 
expressing what he did not think. 

Finding him in a placid humor, and 
wishing to avail myself of the opportunity 
which I fortunately had of consulting a 
sage, to hear whose wisdom, I con- [640 



ceived, in the ardor of youthful imagina- 
tion, that men filled with a noble en- 
thusiasm for intellectual improvement 
would gladly have resorted from distant 
lands; — I opened my mind to him in- 
genuously, and gave him a little sketch 
of my life, to which he was pleased to 
listen with great attention. 

I acknowledged, that though educated 
very strictly in the principles of re- [650 
ligion, I had for some time been misled 
into a certain degree of infideUty; but 
that I was come now to a better way of 
thinking, and was fully satisfied of the 
truth of the Christian revelation, though 
I was not clear as to every point con- 
sidered to be orthodox. Being at all 
times a curious examiner of the human 
mind, and pleased with an undisguised 
display of what had passed in it, [660 
he called to me with warmth, "Give me 
your hand; I have taken a Hking to you." 
He then began to descant upon the force 
of testimony, and the little we could 
know of final causes; so that, the objec- 
tions of, why was it so? or why was it 
not so? ought not to disturb us: adding, 
that he himself had at one period been 
guilty of a temporary neglect of religion, 
but that it was not the result of argu- [670 
ment, but mere absence of thought. 

After having given credit to reports of 
his bigotry, I was agreeably surprised 
when he expressed the following very 
liberal sentiment, which has the addi- 
tional value of obviating an objection to 
our holy religion, founded upon the dis- 
cordant tenets of Christians themselves: 
"For my part, Sir, I think all Christians, 
whether Papists or Protestants, agree [680 
in the essential articles, and that their 
differences are trivial, and rather pohtical 
than religious." 

We talked of belief in ghosts. He 
said, "Sir, I make a distinction between 
what a man may experience by the mere 
strength of his imagination, and what 
imagination cannot possibly produce. 
Thus, suppose I should think that I saw 
a form, and heard a voice cry, 'John- [690 
son, you are a very wicked fellow, and 
unless you repent you ■v\dll certainly be 
punished;' my own imworthiness is so 
deeply impressed upon my mind, that I 



3o8 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



might imagine I thus saw and heard, and 
therefore I should not beheve that an 
external communication had been made 
to me. But if a form should appear, and 
a voice should tell me that a particular 
man had died at a particular place, [700 
and a particular hour, a fact which I had 
no apprehension of, nor any means of 
knowing, and this fact, with all its cir- 
cumstances, should afterwards be unques- 
tionably proved, I should, in that case, 
be persuaded that I had supernatural 
intelligence imparted to me." 

Here it is proper, once for all, to give 
a true and fair statement of Johnson's 
way of thinking upon the question, [710 
whether departed spirits are ever per- 
mitted to appear in this world, or in any 
way to operate upon human life. He has 
been ignorantly misrepresented as weakly 
credulous upon that subject; and, there- 
fore, though I feel an inclination to disdain 
and treat wth silent contempt so foolish 
a notion concerning my illustrious friend, 
yet as I find it has gained ground, it is 
necessary to refute it. The real fact [720 
then is, that Johnson had a very philosoph- 
ical mind, and such a rational respect 
for testimony, as to make him submit 
his understanding to what was authen- 
tically proved, though he could not com- 
prehend why it was so. Being thus dis- 
posed, he was willing to inquire into the 
truth of any relation of supernatural 
agency, a general belief of which has pre- 
vailed in all nations and ages. But [730 
so far was he from being the dupe of "im- 
plicit faith, that he examined the matter 
with a jealous attention, and no man 
was more ready to refute its falsehood 
when he had discovered it. Churchill in 
his poem entitled The Ghost, availed him- 
self of the absurd credulity imputed to 
Johnson, and drew a caricature of him 
under the name of "Pomposo," repre- 
senting him as one of the believers of [740 
the story of a Ghost in Cock-lane, which, 
in the year 1762, had gained very general 
credit in London. Many of my readers, 
I am convinced, are to this hour under 
an impression that Johnson was thus 
foolishly deceived. It will therefore sur- 
prise them a good deal when they are in- 
formed upon undoubted authority, that 



Johnson was one of those by whom the 
imposture was detected. The story [750 
had become so popular, that he thought 
it should be investigated; and in this 
research he was assisted by the Reverend 
Dr. Douglas, now Bishop of Salisbury, 
the great detecter of impostures; who 
informs me, that after the gentlemen 
who went and examined into the evi- 
dence were satisfied of its falsity, Johnson 
wrote in their presence an account of it, 
which was published in the news- [760 
papers and Gentleman's Magazine, and 
undeceived the world. 



As Dr. Oliver Goldsmith will frequently 
appear in this narrative, I shall endeavor 
to make my readers in some degree ac- 
quainted with his singular character. He 
was a native of Ireland, and a contem- 
porary with Mr. Burke, at Trinity College, 
Dublin, but did not then give much 
promise of future celebrity. He, [770 
however, observed to Mr. Malone, that 
"though he made no great figure in 
mathematics, which was a study in much 
repute there, he could turn an Ode of 
Horace into English better than any of 
them." He afterwards studied physic at 
Edinburgh, and upon the Continent: and 
I have been informed, was enabled to 
pursue his travels on foot, partly by de- 
manding at Universities to enter the [780 
lists as a disputant, by which, according 
to the custom of many of them, he was 
entitled to the premium of a crown, 
when luckily for him his challenge was 
not accepted; so that, as I once observed 
to Dr. Johnson, he disputed his passage 
through Europe. He then came to Eng- 
land, and was employed successively in 
the capacities of an usher to an academy, 
a corrector of the press, a reviewer, [790 
and a writer for a newspaper. He had 
sagacity enough to cultivate assiduously 
the acquaintance of Johnson, and his 
faculties were gradually enlarged by the 
contemplation of such a model. To me 
and many others it appeared that he 
studiously copied the manner of John- 
son, though, indeed, upon a smaller 
scale. 

At this time I think he had pub- [800 



BOSWELL 



309 



lished nothing with his name, though it 
was pretty generally known that one 
Dr. Goldsmith was the author of "An 
Enquiry into the Present State of Polite 
Learning in Europe," and of "The Citizen 
of the World," a series of letters supposed 
to be written from London by a Chinese. 
No man had the art of displaying with 
more advantage as a writer, whatever 
literary acquisitions he made. ^^ Nihil [810 
quod tetigit non ornavit." His mind re- 
sembled a fertile, but thin soil. There 
was a quick, but not a strong vegetation, 
of whatever chanced to be thrown upon 
it. No deep root could be struck. The 
oak of the forest did not grow there: but 
the elegant shrubbery and the fragrant 
parterre appeared in gay succession. It 
has been generally circulated and be- 
lieved that he was a mere fool in con- [820 
versation; but, in truth, this has been 
greatly exaggerated. He had, no doubt, 
a more than common share of that hurry 
of ideas which we often find in his coun- 
trymen, and which sometimes produces a 
laughable confusion in expressing them. 
He was very much what the French call 
un etourdi, and from vanity and an eager 
desire of being conspicuous wherever he 
was, he frequently talked carelessly [830 
without knowledge of the subject, or 
even without thought. His person was 
short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, 
his deportment that of a scholar awk- 
wardly affecting the easy gentleman. 
Those who were in any way distinguished, 
excited envy in him to so ridiculous an 
excess, that the instances of it are hardly 
credible. When accompanying two beau- 
tiful young ladies wath their mother [840 
on a tour in France, he was seriously 
angry that more attention was paid to 
them than to him; and once at the exhi- 
bition of the Fantoccini in London, when 
those who sat next him observed with 
what dexterity a puppet was made to 
toss a pike, he could not bear that it 
should have such praise, and exclaimed 
with some warmth, "Pshaw! I can do it 
better myself." [850 

He, I am afraid, had no settled system 
of any sort, so that his conduct must not 
be strictly scrutinized; but his affections 
were social and generous, and when he 



had money he gave it away very liberally. 
His desire of imaginary consequence pre- 
dominated over his attention to truth. 
When he began to rise into notice, he 
said he had a brother who was Dean of 
Durham, a fiction so easUy detected, [860 
that it is wonderful how he should have 
been so inconsiderate as to hazard it. He 
boasted to me at this time of the power 
of his pen in commanding money, which 
I believe was true in a certain degree, 
though in the instance he gave he was by 
no means correct. He told me that he 
had sold a novel for four hundred pounds. 
This was his Vicar of Wakefield. But 
Johnson informed me, that he had [870 
made the bargain for Goldsmith, and the 
price was skty pounds. "And, Sir (said 
he), a sufficient price too, when it was 
sold; for then the fame of Goldsmith had 
not been elevated, as it afterwards was, 
by his Traveller; and the bookseller had 
such faint hopes of profit by his bargain, 
that he kept the manuscript by him a long 
time, and did not publish it till after the 
Traveller had appeared. Then, to [880 
be sure, it was accidentally worth more 
money." 

Mrs. Piozzi and Sir John Hawkins have 
strangely misstated the history of Gold- 
smith's situation and Johnson's friendly 
interference, when this novel was sold. 
I shall ^ve it authentically from Johnson's 
own exact narration: 

"I received one morning a message 
from poor Goldsmith that he was in [890 
great distress, and as it was not in his 
power to come to me, begging that I 
would come to him as soon as possible. 
I sent him a guinea, and promised to come 
to him directly. I accordingly went as 
soon as I was dressed, and found that his 
landlady had arrested him for his rent, 
at which he was in a \Tlolent passion. I 
perceived that he had already changed 
my guinea, and had got a bottle of [900 
Madeira and a glass before him. I put 
the cork into the bottle, desired he would 
be calm, and began to talk to him of the 
means by which he might be extricated. 
He then told me that he had a novel ready 
for the press, which he produced to me. 
I looked into it, and saw its merit; told 
the landlady I should soon return, and 



3IO 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



having gone to a bookseller, sold it for 
sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith [910 
the money, and he discharged his rent, 
not without rating his landlady in a high 
tone for having used him so ill." 

My next meeting with Johnson was on 
Friday the ist of July, when he and I and 
Dr. Goldsmith supped at the Mitre. I 
was before this time pretty well acquainted 
with Goldsmith, who was one of the 
brightest ornaments of the Johnsonian 
school. Goldsmith's respectful at- [920 
tachment to Johnson was then at its 
height; for his own hterary reputation 
had not yet distinguished him so much as 
to excite a vain desire of competition with 
his great Master. He had increased my 
admiration of the goodness of Johnson's 
heart, by incidental remarks in the 
course of conversation, such as, when I 
mentioned Mr. Levet, whom he enter- 
tained under his roof, "He is poor [930 
and honest, which is recommendation 
enough to Johnson;" and when I won- 
dered that he was very kind to a man of 
whom I had heard a very bad character, 
"He is nov/ become miserable, and that 
insures the protection of Johnson." 

Goldsmith attempting this evening to 
maintain, I suppose from an affectation 
of paradox, "that knowledge was not 
desirable on its own account, for it [940 
often was a source of unhappiness." 
Johnson. "Why, Sir, that knowledge 
may in some cases produce unhappiness, 
I allow. But, upon the whole, knowledge, 
per se, is certainly an object which every 
man would wish to attain, although, 
perhaps, he may not take the trouble 
necessary for attaining it." 

Dr. John Campbell, the celebrated 
political and biographical ^\Titer, be- [950 
ing mentioned, Johnson said, "Campbell 
is a man of much knowledge, and has a 
good share of imagination. His ' Hermip- 
pus Redivi\ais' is very entertaining, as 
an account of the Hermetic philosophy, 
and as furnishing a curious history of the 
extravagances of the human mind. If it 
were merely imaginary, it would be noth- 
ing at all. Campbell is not always rigidly 
careful of truth in his conversation; [960 
but I do not believe there is any thing of 
this carelessness in his books. Campbell 



is a good man, a pious man. I am afraid 
he has not been in the inside of a church 
for many years; but he never passes a 
church without pulling off his hat. This 
shows that he has good principles. I used 
to go pretty often to Campbell's on a 
Sunday evening till I began to consider 
that the shoals of Scotchmen who [970 
flocked about him might probably say, 
when any thing of mine was well done, 
'Ay, ay, he has learnt this of Cawmell! ' " 

He talked very contemptuously of 
Churchill's poetry, observing, that "it 
had a temporary currency, only from its 
audacity of abuse, and being filled with 
living names, that it would sink into 
oblivion." I ventured to hint that he 
was not quite a fair judge, as Churchill [980 
had attacked him violently. Johnson. 
"Nay, Sir, I am a very fair judge. He 
did not attack me violently till he found 
I did not like his poetry; and his attack 
on me shall not prevent me from con- 
tinuing to say what I think of him, from 
an apprehension that it may be ascribed 
to resentment. No, Sir, I called the fel- 
low a blockhead at first, and I will call 
him a blockhead still. However, I [990 
wUl acknowledge that I have a better 
opinion of him now, than I once had; for 
he has sho^Aii more fertility than I ex- 
pected. To be sure, he is a tree that 
cannot produce good fruit: he only bears 
crabs. But, Sir, a tree that produces a 
great many crabs is better than a tree 
which produces only a few." 

In this depreciation of Churchill's 
poetry I could not agree with him. [1000 
It is very true that the greatest part of it 
is upon the topics of the day, on which 
account, as it brought him great fame and 
profit at the time, it must proportionably 
sHde out of the public attention as other 
occasional objects succeed. But Churchill 
had extraordinary \igor both of thought 
and expression. His portraits of the 
players will ever be valuable to the true 
lovers of the drama; and his strong [loio 
caricatures of several eminent men of his 
age, will not be forgotten by the curious. 
Let me add, that there are in his works 
many passages which are of a general 
nature; and his Prophecy of Famine is 
a poem of no ordinary merit. It is, indeed, 



BOSWELL 



3" 



falsely injurious to Scotland; but there- 
fore may be allowed a greater share of 
invention. 

Bonnell Thornton had just pub- [1020 
lished a burlesque "Ode on St. Cecilia's 
day, adapted to the ancient British music, 
viz. the salt-box, the jews-harp, the 
marrow-bones and cleaver, the hum-strum 
or hurdy-gurdy, &c." Johnson praised 
its humor, and seemed much diverted 
with it. He repeated the following pas- 
sage: 

"In strains more exalted the salt-box 

shall join, 
And clattering and battering and clapping 

combine; [1030 

With a rap and a tap while the hollow 

side sounds. 
Up and down leaps the flap, and with 

rattling rebounds." 

I mentioned the periodical paper called 
The Connoisseur. He said it wanted 
matter. — No doubt it had not the deep 
thinking of Johnson's writings. But surely 
it has just views of the surface of life, 
and a very sprightly manner. His opinion 
of The World was not much higher than 
of The Connoisseur. [1040 

Let me here apologize for the imperfect 
manner in which I am obliged to exhibit 
Johnson's conversation at this period. In 
the early part of my acquaintance with 
him, I was so wrapt in admiration of his 
extraordinary colloquial talents, and so 
little accustomed to his peculiar mode of 
expression, that I found it extremely 
difficult to recollect and record his con- 
versation with its genuine vigor and [1050 
vivacity. In progress of time, when my 
mind was, as it were, strongly impregnated 
with the Johnsonian (Bther, I could with 
much more facility and exactness, carry 
in my memory and commit to paper the 
exuberant variety of his wisdom and wit. 

At this time Miss Williams, as she was 
then called, though she did not reside 
with him in the Temple under his roof, 
but had lodgings in Bolt-court, [1060 
Fleet-street, had so much of his attention, 
that he every night drank tea with her 
before he went home, however late it 
might be, and she always sat up for 
him. This, it may be fairly conjectured. 



was not alone a proof of his regard for her, 
but of his own unwillingness to go into 
solitude, before that unseasonable hour at 
which he had habituated himself to ex- 
pect the oblivion of repose. Dr. Gold- [1070 
smith, being a privileged man, went with 
him this night, strutting away, and calling 
to me with an air of superiority, like 
that of an esoteric over an exoteric 
disciple of a sage of antiquity, "I go to 
see Miss Williams." I confess, I then 
envied him this mighty privilege, of which 
he seemed so proud; but it was not long 
before I obtained the same mark of dis- 



tmction. 



1080 



On Wednesday, July 6, he was engaged 
to sup with me at my lodgings in Dowti- 
ing-street, Westminster. But on the pre- 
ceding night my landlord having be- 
haved very rudely to me and some com- 
pany who were with me, I had resolved 
not to remain another night in his house. 
I was exceedingly uneasy at the awkward 
appearance I supposed I should make 
to Johnson and the other gentleman [1090 
whom I had invited, not being able to 
receive them at home, and being obliged 
to order supper at the Mitre. I went to 
Johnson in the morning, and talked 
of it as of a serious distress. He laughed, 
and said, "Consider, Sir, how insignificant 
this will appear a twelvemonth hence." — 
Were this consideration to be applied to 
most of the little vexatious incidents of 
Hfe, by which our quiet is too often [noo 
disturbed, it would prevent many painful 
sensations. I have tried it frequently 
^\^th good effect. "There is nothing (con- 
tinued he) in this mighty misfortune; nay, 
wx shall be better at the Mitre." I told 
him that I had been at Sir John Fielding's 
office, complaining of my landlord, and 
had been informed, that though I had 
taken my lodgings for a year, I might, 
upon proof of his bad beha^dor, quit [mo 
them when I pleased, \\'ithout being under 
an obligation to pay rent for any longer 
time than while I possessed them. The 
fertility of Johnson's mind could show 
itself even upon so small a matter as this. 
"Why, Sir (said he), I suppose this must 
be the law, since you have been told so in 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Bow-street. But, if your landlord could 
hold you to your bargain, and the lodgings 
should be yours for a year, you may [1120 
certainly use them as you think fit. So, 
Sir, you may quarter two life-guardmen 
upon him; or you may send the greatest 
scoundrel you can find into your apart- 
ments; or you may say that you want to 
make some experiments in natural philos- 
ophy, and may burn a large quantity 
of assafoetida in his house." 

I had as my guests this evening at the 
Mitre tavern. Dr. Johnson, Dr. Gold- [1130 
smith, Mr. Thomas Davies, Mr. Eccles, 
an Irish gentleman, for whose agreeable 
company I was obliged to Mr. Davies, 
and the Reverend Mr. John Ogilvie, who 
was desirous of being in company with 
my illustrious friend, while I in my turn 
was proud to have the honor of showing 
one of my countrymen upon what easy 
terms Johnson permitted me to live with 
him. [1140 

Goldsmith, as usual, endeavored, with 
too much eagerness, to shhte, and dis- 
puted very warmly \\ith Johnson against 
the well knowTi maxim of the British con- 
stitution, "the King can do no ^^Tong;" 
affirming, that "what was morally false 
could not be politically true; and as the 
King might, in the exercise of his regal 
power, command and cause the doing of 
what was wrong, it certainly might [1150 
be said, in sense and in reason, that he 
could do wrong." Johnson. "Sir, you 
are to consider, that in our constitution, 
according to its true principles, the King 
is the head, he is supreme: he is above 
everything, and there is no power by 
which he can be tried. Therefore, it is, 
Sir, that we hold the King can do no 
wrong; that whatever may happen to be 
wrong in government may not be [1160 
above our reach, by being ascribed to 
Majesty. Redress is always to be had 
against oppression, by punishing the im- 
mediate agents. The King, though he 
should command, cannot force a Judge to 
condemn a man unjustly; therefore it is 
the Judge whom we prosecute and punish. 
Political institutions are formed upon the 
consideration of what ^^dll most frequently 
tend to the good of the whole, al- [11 70 
though now and then exceptions may 



occur. Thus it is better in general that a 
nation should have a supreme legislative 
power, although it may at times be abused. 
And then. Sir, there is this consideration, 
that if the abuse be enormous, Nature will 
rise up, a)td claiming her original rights, 
overturn a corrupt political system.'" I 
mark this animated sentence with pe- 
culiar pleasure, as a noble instance [1180 
of that truly dignified spirit of freedom 
which ever glowed in his heart, though 
he was charged with slavish tenets by 
superficial observers; because he was at 
all times indignant against that false 
patriotism, that pretended love of free- 
dom, that unruly restlessness which is 
inconsistent with the stable authority of 
any good government. 

This generous sentiment, which he [1190 
uttered with great fervor, struck me ex- 
ceedingly, and stirred my blood to that 
pitch of fancied resistance, the possibility 
of which I am glad to keep in mind, but 
to which I trust I never shall be forced. 

"Great abilities (said he) are not req- 
uisite for an Historian; for in historical 
composition, all the greatest powers of the 
human mind are quiescent. He has facts 
ready to his hand; so there is no [1200 
exercise of invention. Imagination is not 
required in any high degree; only about 
as much as is used in the lower kinds of 
poetry. Some penetration, accuracy, and 
coloring, will fit a man for the task, if 
he can give the application which is 
necessary." 

"Bayle's Dictionary is a very useful 
work for those to consult who love the 
biographical part of literature, which [1210 
is what I love most." 

Talking of the eminent writers in Queen 
Anne's reign, he observed, "I think Dr. 
Arbuthnot the first man among them. 
He was the most universal genius, being 
an excellent physician, a man of deep 
learning, and a man of much humor. Mr. 
Addison was, to be sure, a great man; his 
learning was not profound; but his 
morality, his humor, and his elegance [1220 
of \mting, set him very high." 

Mr. OgiKde was unlucky enough to 
choose for the topic of his conversation 
the praises of his native country. He 
began with saying, that there was very 



BOSWELL 



313 



rich land around Edinburgh. Goldsmith, 
who had studied physic there, contra- 
dicted this, very untruly, with a sneering 
laugh. Disconcerted a little by this, 
Mr. Ogilvie then took a new ground, [1230 
where, I suppose, he thought himself 
perfectly safe; for he observed, that Scot- 
land had a great many noble wild pros- 
pects. Johnson. "I believe. Sir, you 
have a great many. Norway, too, has 
noble wild prospects; and Lapland is re- 
markable for prodigious noble wild pros- 
pects. But, Sir, let me tell you, the 
noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever 
sees, is the high road that leads him [1240 
to England!" This unexpected and 
pointed sally produced a roar of applause. 
After all, however, those who admire the 
rude grandeur of Nature, cannot deny it 
to Caledonia. 

On Saturday, July 9, I found Johnson 
surrounded with a numerous levee, but 
have not preserved any part of his con- 
versation. On the 14th we had another 
evening by ourselves at the Mitre. It [1250 
happening to be a very rainy, night, I 
made some common-place observations 
on the relaxation of nerves and depression 
of spirits which such weather occasioned; 
adding, however, that it was good for the 
vegetable creation. Johnson, who, as we 
have already seen, denied that the tem- 
perature of the air had any influence on 
the human frame, answered, with a smile 
of ridicule, "Why, yes. Sir, it is good [1260 
for vegetables, and for the animals who 
eat those vegetables, and for the animals 
who eat those animals." This observation 
of his aptly enough introduced a good 
supper; and I soon forgot, in Johnson's 
company, the influence of a moist at- 
mosphere. 

Feeling myself now quite at ease as his 
companion, though I had all possible 
reverence for him, I expressed a re- [1270 
gret that I could not be so easy wdth my 
father, though he was not much older 
than Johnson, and certainly however re- 
spectable had not more learning and 
greater abilities to depress me. I asked 
him the reason of this. Johnson. "Why, 
Sir, I am a man of the world. I live in 
the world, and I take, in some degree, the 
color of the world as it moves along. Your 



father is a Judge in a remote part of [1280 
the island, and all his notions are taken 
from the old world. Besides, Sir, there 
must always be a struggle between a 
father and son, while one aims at power 
and the other at independence." I said, 
I was afraid my father would force me to 
be a lawyer. Johnson. "Sir, you need 
not be afraid of his forcing you to be a 
laborious practising lawyer; that is not 
in his power. For as the proverb [1290 
says, 'One man may lead a horse to the 
water, but twenty cannot make him drink.' 
He may be displeased that you are not 
what he wishes you to be; but that dis- 
pleasure will not go far. If he insists 
only on your having as much law as is 
necessary for a man of property, and then 
endeavors to get you into Parliament, he 
is quite in the right." 

He enlarged very convincingly [1300 
upon the excellence of rhyme over blank 
verse in English poetry. I mentioned to 
him that Dr. Adam Smith, in his lectures 
upon composition, when I studied under 
him in the College of Glasgow, had main- 
tained the same opinion strenuously, and 
I repeated some of his arguments. John- 
son. "Sir, I was once in company with 
Smith, and we did not take to each other; 
but had I knoA^Ti that he loved [13 10 
rhyme as much as you tell me he does, 
I should have hugged him." 

Talking of those who denied the truth 
of Christianity, he said, "It is always 
easy to be on the negative side. If a man 
were now to deny that there is salt upon 
the table, you could not reduce him to an 
absurdity. Come, let us try this a little 
further. I deny that Canada is taken; 
and I can support my denial by [1320 
pretty good arguments. The French are 
a much more numerous people than we; 
and it is not Hkely that they would allow 
us to take it. 'But the ministry have 
assured us, in all the formality of the 
Gazette, that it is taken.' — Very true. 
But the ministry have put us to an enor- 
mous expense by the war in America, and 
it is their interest to persuade us that we 
have got something for our money. — [1330 
'But the fact is confirmed by thousands 
of men who were at the taking of it.' — 
Ay, but these men have still more in- 



314 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



terest in deceiving us. They don't want 
that you should think the French have 
beat them, but that they have beat the 
French. Now suppose you should go 
over and find that it really is taken, that 
would only satisfy yourself; for when you 
come home we will not believe you. [1340 
We will say, you have been bribed. — 
Yet, Sir, notwithstanding all these plau- 
sible objections, we have no doubt that 
Canada is really ours. Such is the weight 
of common testimony. How much 
stronger are the evidences of the Chris- 
tian religion? 

"Idleness is a disease which must be 
combated; but I would not advise a rigid 
adherence to a particular plan of [1350 
study. I myself have never persisted in 
any plan for two days together. A man 
ought to read just as inclination leads 
him; for what he reads as a task will do 
him little good. A young man should 
read five hours in a day, and so may 
acquire a great deal of knowledge." 

To a man of vigorous intellect and 
ardent curiosity like his own, reading 
without a regular plan may be bene- [1360 
ficial; though even such a man must sub- 
mit to it, if he would attain a full under- 
standing of any of the sciences. 

To such a degree of unrestrained frank- 
ness had he now accustomed me, that in 
the course of this evening I talked of the 
numerous reflections which had been 
thrown out against him on account of 
his having accepted a pension from his 
present Majesty. "Why, Sir (said [1370 
he, -vvith a hearty laugh), it is a mighty 
foolish noise that they make. I have 
accepted of a pension as a reward which 
has been thought due to my literary 
merit; and now that I have this pension, 
I am the same man in every respect that 
I have ever been; I retain the same prin- 
ciples. It is true, that I cannot now curse 
(smiling) the House of Hanover; nor 
would it be decent for me to drink [1380 
King James's health in the wine that King 
George gives me money to pay for. But, 
Sir, I think that the pleasure of cursing 
the House of Hanover, and drinking King 
James's health, are amply overbalanced 
by three hundred pounds a year." 

There was here, most certainly, an 



affectation of more Jacobitism than he 
really had; and indeed an intention of 
admitting, for the moment, in a [1390 
much greater extent than it really ex- 
isted, the charge of disaffection imputed 
to him by the world, merely for the pur- 
pose of showing how dexterously he could 
repel an attack, even though he were 
placed in the most disadvantageous posi- 
tion; for I have heard him declare, that 
if holding up his right hand would have 
secured victory at CuUoden to Prince 
Charles's army, he was not sure he [1400 
would have held it up; so Httle confidence 
had he in the right claimed by the House 
of Stuart, and so fearful was he of the 
consequences of another revolution on 
the throne of Great Britain; and Mr. 
Topham Beauclerk assured me, he had 
heard him say this before he had his pen- 
sion. At another time he said to Mr. 
Langton, "Nothing has ever offered, that 
has made it worth my while to con- [141 o 
sider the question fully." He, however, 
also said to the same gentleman, talking 
of King James the Second, "It was be- 
come impossible for him to reign any 
longer in this country." He no doubt 
had an early attachment to the House of 
Stuart; but his zeal had cooled as his 
reason strengthened. Indeed, I heard 
him once say, "that after the death of a 
violent Whig, with whom he used [1420 
to contend with great eagerness, he felt 
his Toryism much abated." I suppose he 
meant Mr. Walmsley. 

Yet there is no doubt that at earlier 
periods he was wont often to exercise 
both his pleasantry and ingenuity in 
talking Jacobitism. My much respected 
friend. Dr. Douglas, now Bishop of Salis- 
bury, has favored me with the following 
admirable instance from his Lord- [1430 
ship's own recollection. One day when 
dining at old Mr. Langton's, where Miss 
Roberts, his niece, was one of the com- 
pany, Johnson, with his usual complacent 
attention to the fair sex, took her by the 
hand and said, "My dear, I hope you are 
a Jacobite." Old Mr. Langton, who, 
though a high and steady Tory, was at- 
tached to the present Royal Family, 
seemed offended, and asked Johnson, [1440 
with great warmth, what he could mean 



BOSWELL 



315 



by putting such a question to his niece! 
"Why, Sir (said Johnson), I meant no 
offence to your niece, I meant her a great 
compUment. A Jacobite, Sir, beh'eves in 
the divine right of Kings. He that be- 
Heves in the divine right of Kings beheves 
in a Divinity. A Jacobite beheves in the 
divine right of Bishops. He that beheves 
in the divine right of Bishops be- [1450 
lieves in the divine authority of the Chris- 
tian rehgion. Therefore, Sir, a Jacobite 
is neither an Atheist nor a Deist. That 
cannot be said of a Whig; for Whiggism 
is a negation of all principle.''^ 



Next morning I found him alone, and 
have preserved the foUowing fragments 
of his conversation. Of a gentleman 
who was mentioned, he said, "I have not 
met with any man for a long time [1460 
who has given me such general displeas- 
ure. He is totally unfixed in his prin- 
ciples, and wants to puzzle other people." 
I said his principles had been poisoned 
by a noted infidel writer, but that he was, 
nevertheless, a benevolent good man. 
Johnson. "We can have no dependance 
upon that instinctive, that constitutional 
goodness, which is not founded upon 
principle. I grant you that such a [1470 
man may be a very amiable member of 
society. I can conceive him placed in 
such a situation that he is not much 
tempted to deviate from what is right; 
and as every man prefers virtue, when 
there is not some strong incitement to 
transgress its precepts, I can conceive 
him doing nothing wrong. But if such 
a man stood in need of money, I should 
not like to trust him; and I should [1480 
certainly not trust him with young ladies, 
for there there is always temptation. 
Hume, and other sceptical innovators, 
are vain men, and will gratify themselves 
at any expense. Truth will not afford 
sufficient food to their vanity; so they 
have betaken themselves to error. Truth, 
Sir, is a cow which ^^•ill yield such people 
no more milk, and so they are gone to 
milk the bull. If I could have al- [1400 
lowed myself to gratify my vanity at the 
expense of truth, what fame might I have 
acquired. Everything which Hume has 



advanced against Christianity had passed 
through my mind long before he wrote. 
Always remember this, that- after a sys- 
tem is well settled upon positive evidence, 
a few partial objections ought not to 
shake it. The human mind is so limited, 
that it cannot take in all the parts [1500 
of a subject, so that there may be objec- 
tions raised against any thing." . , . 

I mentioned Hume's argument against 
the belief of miracles, that it is more prob- 
able that the witnesses to the truth of 
them are mistaken, or speak falsely, than 
that the miracles should be true. John- 
son. "Why, Sir, the great difficulty of 
proving miracles should make us very 
cautious in believing them. But let [15 10 
us consider; although God has made 
Nature to operate by certain fixed laws, 
yet it is not unreasonable to think that 
he may suspend those laws, in order to 
estabhsh a system highly advantageous 
to mankind. Now the Christian Rehgion 
is a most beneficial system, as it gives us 
light and certainty where we were before 
in darkness and doubt. The miracles 
which prove it are attested by men [1520 
who had no interest in deceiving us; but 
who, on the contrary, were told that 
they should suffer persecution, and did 
actually lay down their hves in confirma- 
tion of the truth of the facts which they 
asserted. Indeed, for some centuries the 
heathens did not pretend to deny the 
miracles; but said they were performed 
by the aid of evil spirits. This is a cir- 
cumstance of great weight. Then, [1530 
Sir, when we take the proofs derived 
from prophecies which have been so ex- 
actly fulfilled, we have most satisfactory 
evidence. Supposing a miracle possible, 
as to which, in my opinion, there can be 
no doubt, we have as strong e\ddence for 
the miracles in support of Christianity, 
as the nature of the thing admits." 

At night, Mr. Johnson and I supped 
in a private room at the Turk's Head [1540 
coffee-house, in the Strand. "I encourage 
this house (said he), for the mistress of 
it is a good civil woman, and has not 
much business. 

"Sir, I love the acquaintance of young 
people; because, in the first place, I don't 
hke to think myself growing old. In 



3i6 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



the next place, young acquaintances must 
last longest, if they do last; and then. Sir, 
young men- have more virtue than [1550 
old men; they have more generous senti- 
ments in eN'er}' respect. I love the young 
dogs of this age, they ha\'e more wit and 
humor and knowledge of life than we had ; 
but then the dogs are not so good scholars. 
Sir, in my early years I read very hard. 
It is a sad reflection but a true one, tliat 
I knew almost as much at eighteen as I 
do now. My judgment, to be sure, was 
not so good; but I had all the facts. [1560 
I remember xevy well, when I was at 
Oxford, an old gentleman said to me. 
'Young man, ply your book diligently 
now, and acquire a stock of knowledge; 
for when years come upon you, you will 
find that poring upon books will be but 
an irksome task.'" 

This account of his reading, given by 
himself in plain words, sufficiently con- 
firms what I have already ad- [1570 
vanced upon the disputed question as 
to his application. It reconciles any 
seeming inconsistency in his way of talk- 
ing upon it at dift'erent times; and shows 
that idleness and reading hard were with 
him relative terms, the import of which, 
as -used by him, must be gathered from a 
comparison with what scholars of differ- 
ent degrees of ardor and assiduity have 
been known to do. And let it be re- [15 So 
membered. that he was now talking spon- 
taneously, and expressing his genuine 
sentiments; whereas at other times he 
might be induced, from his spirit of con- 
tradiction, or more properly from his love 
of argumentative contest, to speak lightly 
of his own application to study. It is 
pleasing to consider that the old gentle- 
man's gloomy prophecy as to the irk- 
someness of books to men of an ad- [1590 
vanced age, which is too often fulfilled, 
was so far from being verified in Johnson, 
that his ardor for literature never failed, 
and his last writings had more ease and 
\dvacity than any of his earlier produc- 
tions. 

He mentioned to me now, for the first 
time, that he had been distressed by mel- 
ancholy, and for that reason had been 
obliged to fly from study and medita- [1600 
tion, to the dissipating variety of life. 



xA.gainst melancholy he recommended con- 
stant occupation of mind, a great deal of 
exercise, moderation in eating and drink- 
ing, and especially to shun drinking at 
night. He said melancholy people were 
apt to fly to intemperance for relief, but 
that it sunk them much deeper in misery. 
He observed, that laboring men who 
work hard, and live sparingly, are [1610 
seldom or never troubled with low spirits. 
He again insisted on the duty of main- 
taining subordination of rank. ''Sir, I 
would no more depri\'e a nobleman of his 
respect, than of his money. I consider 
myself as acting a part in the great sys- 
tem of society, and I do to others as I 
would have them to do to me. I would 
behave to a nobleman as I should expect 
he would behave to me, were I a [1620 
nobleman and he Sam. Johnson. Sir, 
there is one ]\Irs. Macaulay in this town, 
a great republican. One day when I was 
at her house, I put on a very grave coun- 
tenance, and said to her, 'ISIadam, I am 
now become a convert to your way of 
thinking. I am con\'inced that all man- 
kind are upon an equal footing; and 
to give you an unquestionable proof. 
Madam, that I am in earnest, here [1630 
is a very sensible, civil, well-behaved fel- 
low citizen, your footman; I desire that he 
may be allowed to sit down and dine 
with us.' I thus. Sir, showed her the 
absurdity of the levelling doctrine. She 
has never liked me since. Sir, your 
levellers wish to level doicn as far as them- 
selves; but they cannot bear levelling 
up to themselves. They would all have 
some people under them; why not [1640 
then have some people above them?" I 
mentioned a certain author who dis- 
gusted me by his forwardness, and by 
sho^^'ing no deference to noblemen into 
whose company he was admitted. John- 
son. '"Suppose a shoemaker should 
claim an equality with him, as he does 
with a Lord: how he would stare. 'W'Tiy, 
Sir, do you stare? (says the shoemaker,) 
I do great ser\'ice to society. 'Tis [1650 
true, I am paid for doing it; but so are 
you. Sir: and I am sorry to say it, better 
paid than I am, for doing something not 
so necessary. For mankind could do 
better without your books, than without 



BOSWELL 



317 



my shoes.' Thus, Sir, there would be a 
perpetual struggle for precedence, were 
there no fixed invariable rules for the dis- 
tinction of rank, which creates no jealousy, 
as it is allowed to be accidental." fi66o 



I again begged his advice as to my 
method of study at Utrecht. "Come, 
(said he) let us make a day of it. Let us 
go down to Greenwich and dine, and 
talk of it there." The following Saturday 
was fixed for this excursion. 

As we walked along the Strand to-night, 
arm in arm, a woman of the town ac- 
costed us, in the usual enticing manner. 
"No, no, my girl (said Johnson), it [1670 
won't do." He, however, did not treat 
her with harshness; and we talked of the 
wretched life of such women, and agreed, 
that much more misery than happiness, 
upon the whole, is produced by illicit 
commerce between the sexes. 

On Saturday, July 30, Dr. Johnson 
and I took a sculler at the Temple-stairs, 
and set out for Greenwich. I asked him 
if he really thought a knowledge of [1680 
the Greek and Latin languages an essen- 
tial requisite to a good education. John- 
son. "Most certainly. Sir; for those who 
know them have a very great advantage 
over those who do not. Nay, Sir, it is 
wonderful what a difference learning 
makes upon people even in the common 
intercourse of life, which does not appear 
to be much connected with it." "And 
yet (said I), people go through the [1690 
world very well, and carry on the business 
of Ufe to good advantage, without learn- 
ing." Johnson. "Why, Sir, that may 
be true in cases where learning cannot 
possibly be of any use; for instance, this 
boy rows us as well without learning, as 
if he could sing the song of Orpheus to the 
Argonauts, who were the first sailors." 
He then called to the boy, "What would 
you give, my lad, to know about [1700 
the Argonauts?" "Sir (said the boy), I 
would give what I have." Johnson was 
much pleased %\dth his answer, and we 
gave him a double fare. Dr. Johnson 
then turning to me, "Sir (said he), a 
desire of knowledge is the natural feeling 
of mankind; and every human being. 



whose mind is not debauched, will be 
willing to give all that he has, to get 
knowledge." [1710 

We landed at the Old Swan, and walked 
to Billingsgate, where we took oars and 
moved smoothly along the silver Thames. 
It was a very fine day. We were enter- 
tained with the immense number and 
variety of ships that were lying at anchor, 
and with the beautiful country on each 
side of the river. 

I talked of preaching, and of the great 
success which those called Metho- [1720 
dists have. Johnson. "Sir, it is owing 
to their expressing themselves in a plain 
and familiar manner, which is the only 
Vv^ay to do good to the common people, 
and which clergymen of genius and learn- 
ing ought to do from a principle of duty, 
when it is suited to their congregations; a 
practice, for which they will be praised 
by men of sense. To insist against drunk- 
enness as a crime, because it de- [1730 
bases reason, the noblest faculty of man, 
would be of no service to the common 
people; but to tell them that they may 
die in a fit of drunkenness, and show them 
how dreadful that would be, cannot fail 
to make a deep impression. Sir, when 
your Scotch clergy give up their homely 
manner, religion will soon decay in that 
country." Let this observation, as John- 
son meant it, be ever remembered. [1740 

I was much pleased to iind myself with 
Johnson at Greenwich, which he cele- 
brates in his "London" as a favorite 
scene. I had the poem in my pocket, and 
read the lines aloud with enthusiasm: 

"On Thames's banks in silent thought we 

stood, 
Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver 

flood: 
Pleased with the seat which gave Eliza 

birth, 
We kneel, and kiss the consecrated 

earth." 

He remarked that the structure of [1750 
Greenwich hospital was too magnificent 
for a place of charity, and that its parts 
were too much detached, to make one 
great whole. 

Buchanan, he said, was a very fine 
poet; and observed, that he was the first 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



who complimented a lady, by ascribing 
to her the different perfections of the 
heathen goddesses; but that Johnston 
improved upon this, by making his [1760 
lady, at the same time, free from their 
defects. 

He dwelt upon Buchanan's elegant 
verses to Mary, Queen of Scots, Nympha 
Caledonice, &c. and spoke with enthusiasm 
of the beauty of Latin verse. "All the 
modern languages (said he) cannot fur- 
nish so melodious a Hne as 

Formosam resonare doces Amarillida 
silvas. [1770 

Afterwards he entered upon the busi- 
ness of the day, which was to give 
me his ad\'ice as to a course of study. 
And here I am to mention with much 
regret, that my record of what he said 
is miserably scanty. I recollect -ndth 
admiration an animating blaze of elo- 
quence, which roused every intellectual 
power in me to the highest pitch, but 
must have dazzled me so much, [1780 
that my memory could not preserve the 
substance of his discourse; for the note 
which I find of it is no more than this: — 
"He ran over the grand scale of human 
knowledge; advised me to select some 
particular branch to excel in, but to ac- 
quire a little of ever^' kind." The defect 
of my minutes will be fully supplied by a 
long letter upon the subject, which he 
favored me with, after I had been [1790 
some time at Utrecht, and which my 
readers will have the pleasure to peruse 
in its proper place. 

We walked in the evening in Greenwich 
Park. He asked me I suppose, by way of 
trying my disposition, "Is not this very 
fine?" Ha\dng no exquisite relish of the 
beauties of Nature, and being more de- 
lighted with "the busy hum of men," I 
answered, "Yes, Sir; but not equal [1800 
to Fleet-street." Johnson. "You are 
right, Sir." 

I am aware that many of my readers 
may censure my want of taste. Let me, 
however, shelter myself under the au- 
thority of a very fashionable Baronet in 
the brilliant world, who, on his attention 
being called to the fragrance of a May 
evening in the country, observed, "This 



may be very well; but for my part, [1810 
I prefer the smell of a flambeau at the 
play-house." 

We stayed so long at Greenwich, that 
our sail up the river, in our return to 
London, was by no means so pleasant 
as in the morning; for the night air was 
so cold that it made me shiver. I was the 
more sensible of it from having sat up all 
the night before recollecting and writing 
in my Journal what I thought [1820 
worthy of preservation; an exertion, 
which, during the first part of my ac- 
quaintance wdth Johnson, I frequently 
made. I remember having sat up four 
nights in one week, without being much 
incommoded in the day time. 

Johnson, whose robust frame was not 
in the least affected by the cold, scolded 
me, as if my shivering had been a paltry 
effeminacy, saying, "Why do you [1830 
shiver?" Sir William Scott, of the Com- 
mons, told me, that when he complained 
of a head-ache in the post-chaise, as they 
were travelling together to Scotland, 
Johnson treated him in the same manner: 
"At your age, Sir, I had no head-ache." 
It is not easy to make allowance for sen- 
sations in others, which we ourselves have 
not at the time. We must all have ex- 
perienced how very differently we [1840 
are affected by the complaints of our 
neighbors, when we are well and when 
^\e are ill. In full health, we can scarcely 
believe that they suffer much; so faint 
is the image of pain upon our imagina- 
tion: when softened by sickness, we 
readily sympathize with the sufferings of 
others. 

We concluded the day at the Turk's 
Head coffee-house very socially. [1850 
He was pleased to listen to a particular 
account which I gave him of my family, 
and of its hereditary estate, as to the 
extent and population of which he asked 
questions, and made calculations; recom- 
mending, at the same time, a liberal 
kindness to the tenantry, as people over 
whom the proprietor was placed by 
Providence. He took delight in hearing 
my description of the romantic seat [i860 
of my ancestors. "I must be there. Sir 
(said he), and we will live in the old 
castle; and if there is not a room in it 



BOSWELL 



319 



remaining, we will build one." I was 
highly flattered, but could scarcely indulge 
a hope that Auchinleck would indeed be 
honored by his presence, and celebrated 
by a description, as it afterwards was, in 
his Journey to the Western Islands. 

After we had again talked of my [1870 
setting out for Holland, he said, "I 
must see thee out of England; I will ac- 
company you to Harwich." I could not 
find words to express what I felt upon 
this unexpected and very great mark of 
his affectionate regard. 

Next day, Sunday, July 31, I told him 
I had been that morning at a meeting 
, of the people called Quakers, where I had 
heard a woman preach. Johnson. [1880 
"Sir, a woman's preaching is like a dog's 
walking on his hind legs. It is not done 
well; but you are surprised to find it done 
at all." 

On Tuesday, August 2 (the day of my 
departure from London having been fixed 
for the 5 th), Dr. Johnson did me the 
honor to pass a part of the morning with 
me at my chambers. He said, that "he 
always felt ap incHnation to do noth- [1890 
ing." I observed, that it was strange to 
think that the most indolent man in Brit- 
ain had written the most laborious work. 
The English Dictionary. 

I mentioned an imprudent publication, 
by a certain friend of his, at an early 
period of life, and asked him if he thought 
it would hurt him. Johnson. "No, Sir; 
not much. It may, perhaps, be men- 
tioned at an election." [1900 

I had now made good my title to be 
a privileged man, and was carried by 
him in the evening to drink tea with 
Miss Williams, whom, though under the 
misfortune of having lost her sight, I 
found to be agreeable in conversation; 
for she had a variety of literature, and 
expressed herself well; but her peculiar 
value was the intimacy in which she had 
long lived with Johnson, by which [1910 
she was well acquainted with his habits, 
and knew how to lead him on to talk. 

After tea he carried me to what he called 
his walk, which was a long narrow paved 
court in the neighborhood, overshadowed 
by some trees. There we sauntered a 
considerable time; and I complained to 



him that my love of London and of his 
company was such, that I shrunk almost 
from the thought of going away even [1920 
to travel, which is generally so much 
desired by young men. He roused me 
by manly and spirited conversation. He 
advised me, when settled in any place 
abroad, to study with an eagerness after 
knowledge, and to apply to Greek an 
hour every day; and when I was moving 
about, to read diligently the great book 
of mankind. 

On Wednesday, August 3, we had [1930 
our last social evening at the Turk's 
Head coffee-house, before my setting out 
for foreign parts. I had the misfortune, 
before we parted, to irritate him unin- 
tentionally. I mentioned to him how 
common it was in the world to tell absurd 
stories of him, and to ascribe to him very 
strange sayings. Johnson. "What do they 
make me say. Sir?" Boswell. "Why, 
Sir, as an instance very strange [1940 
indeed (laughing heartily as I spoke), 
David Hume told me, you said that you 
would stand before a battery of cannon to 
restore the Convocation to its full powers." 
— Little did I apprehend that he had 
actually said this: but I was soon con- 
vinced of my error; for, with a deter- 
mined look, he thundered out, " And would 
I not. Sir? Shall the Presbyterian Kirk of 
Scotland have its General Assembly, [1950 
and the Church of England be denied its 
Convocation?" He was walking up and 
down the room, while I told him the 
anecdote; but when he uttered this ex- 
plosion of high-church zeal, he had come 
close to my chair, and his eye flashed 
with indignation. I bowed to the storm, 
and diverted the force of it, by leading 
him to expatiate on the influence which 
religion derived from maintaining [i960 
the church with great external respec- 
tability. . . . 

On Friday, August 5, we set out early 
in the morning in the Harwich stage- 
coach. A fat elderly gentlewoman, and 
a young Dutchman, seemed the most 
inclined among us to conversation. At 
the inn where we dined, the gentlewoman 
said that she had done her best to educate 
her children; and, particularly, that [1970 
she had never suffered them to be a 



\20 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



moment idle. Johnson. "I wish, ISIadam, 
you would educate me too; for I have 
beou an idle fellow all my life." "I 
am sure, Sir (said she), you have not 
been idle." Johnson. *'Nay, Madam, 
it is very true; and that gentleman there 
(pointing to me), has been idle. He was 
idle at Edinburgh. His father sent him 
to Glasgow, where he continued [19S0 
to be idle. He then came to London, 
where he has been very idle; and now he 
is going to Utrecht, where he will be as 
idle as ever." 1 asked him privately how 
he could expose me so. Johnson. "Poh, 
poll! (said he) they knew nothing about 
3^ou, and will think of it no more." 
in the afternoon the gentlewoman talked 
violently against the Roman Catholics, 
and of the horrors of the Inquisition. [1900 
To the utter astonishment of all the pas- 
sengers but myself, who knew that he 
could talk upon any side of a question, he 
defended the Inquisition, and maintained, 
that "false doctrine should be checked 
on its first appearance; that the civil 
power should unite with the church in 
punishing those who dare to attack the 
established religion, and that sucli only 
were punished by the Inquisition.'' [2000 
He had in his pocket Pompoiiius Mela 
de Situ Orb is, in which he read occasion- 
ally, and seemed very intent upon ancient 
geography. Though by no means nig- 
gardly, his attention to what was generally 
right was so minute, that haxdng observed 
at one of the stages that I ostentatiously 
gave a shilling to the coachman, when the 
custom was for each passenger to gi\'e 
only six-pence, he took me aside [2010 
and scolded me, saying that what I had 
done would make the coachman dis- 
satistied with all the rest of the passengers 
who ga\'e him no more than his due. This 
was a just reprimand; for in whatever 
way a man may indulge his generosity or 
his vanity in spending his money, for the 
sake of others he ought not to raise the 
price of any article for which there is a 
constant demand. [2020 

He talked of INIr. Blacklock's poetry, 
so far as it was descriptive of \ds- 
ible objects; and observed, that '*as 
its author had the misfortune to be 
blind, we mav be absolutely sure that 



such passages are cc^mbinations of what 
he has remenibered of the works of other 
writers ^\•ho could see. That foolish fel- 
low, Spence, has labored to explain 
philosophically how Blacklock may [2030 
have done, by means of his own faculties, 
what it is impossible he should do. The 
solution, as I have given it, is plain. Sup- 
pose, I know a man to be so lame that 
he is absolutely incapable to move him- 
self, and I find him in a different room 
from that in which I left him; shall I 
puzzle myself with idle conjectures, that, 
perhaps, his nerves have by some un- 
known change all at once become [2040 
etlfective? No, Sir, it is clear how he got 
into a ditTerent room: he was carried.'' 

Having stopped a night at Colchester, 
Johnson talked of that town with venera- 
tion, for having stood a siege for Charles 
the First. The Dutchman alone now- 
remained with us. He spoke English 
tolerably well; and thinking to recom- 
mend himself to us by expatiating on the 
superiority of the criminal jurispru- [2050 
dence of this country^ over that of Hol- 
land, he inveighed against ,the barbarity 
of putting an accused person to the tor- 
ture, in order to force a confession. But 
Johnson was as ready for this, as for the 
Inquisition. "Why, Sir, you do not, I 
find, imderstand the law of your own 
coimtry. To torture in Holland is con- 
sidered as a favor to an accused person; 
for no man is put to the torture [2060 
there, unless there is as much e\ddence 
against him as would amoimt to con\^c- 
tion in England. An accused person 
among you, therefore, has one chance 
more to escape punishment, than those 
who are tried among us." 

At supper this night he talked of 
good eating with uncommon satisfaction. 
''Some people (said he\ have a foolish 
way of not minding, or pretending [2070 
not to mind, what they eat. For my part, 
I mind my belly ver}^ studiously, and 
very carefully; for I look upon it, that he 
who does not mind his belly, will hardly 
mind any thing else." He now appeared 
to me Jean Bull philosophe, and he was 
for the moment, not only serious, but 
\-ehement. Yet I have heard him, upon 
other occasions, talk with great contempt 



BOSWELL 



321 



of peoj^le who were anxious to grat- [2080 
ify their palates; and the 206th number 
of his Rambler is a masterly essay against 
gulosity. His practice, indeed, I must 
acknowledge, may be considered as cast- 
ing the balance of his different opinions 
upon this subject; for I never knew any 
man who relished good eating more than 
he did. When at table, he was totally 
absorbed in the business of the moment; 
his looks seemed rivetted to his [2090 
plate; nor would he, unless when in very 
high company, say one word, or even pay 
the least attention to what was said by 
others, till he had satisfied his appetite: 
which was so fierce, and indulged with 
such intenseness, that while in the act of 
eating, the veins of his forehead swelled, 
and generally a strong perspiration was 
visible. To those whose sensations were 
delicate, this could not but be disgust- [2100 
ing; and it was doubtless not very suitable 
to the character of a philosopher, who 
should be distinguished by self-command. 
But it must be owned, that Johnson, 
though he could be rigidly abstemious, 
was not a temperate man either in eating 
or drinking. He could refrain, but he 
could not use moderately. He told me, 
that he had fasted two days without in- 
convenience, and that he had never [2110 
been hungry but once. They who beheld 
with wonder how much he eat upon all 
occasions, when his dinner was to his 
taste, could not easily conceive w^hat he 
must have meant by hunger; and not only 
was he remarkable for the extraordinary 
quantity which he eat, but he was, or 
affected to be, a man of very nice discern- 
ment in the science of cookery. He used 
to descant critically on the dishes [2120 
which had been at table where he had dined 
or supped, and to recollect very minutely 
what he had liked. I remember when he 
was in Scotland, his praising "Gordon's 
palates,'" (a dish of palates at the Honor- 
able Alexander Gordon's) with a warmth 
of expression which might have done 
honor to more important subjects. "As 
for Maclaurin's imitation of a made dish, 
it was a wretched attempt." He [2130 
about the same time was so much dis- 
pleased with the performances of a noble- 
man's French cook, that he exclaimed with 



vehemence, "I'd throw such a rascal into 
the river;" and he then proceeded to 
alarm a lady at whose house he was to 
sup, by the following manifesto of his 
skill: "I, Madam, who live at a variety of 
good tables, am a much better judge of 
cookery, than any person who has a [2140 
very tolerable cook, but lives much at 
home; for his palate is gradually adapted 
to the taste of his cook: whereas. Madam, 
in trying by a wider range, I can more 
exquisitely judge." When invited to 
dine, even with an intimate friend, he 
was not pleased if something better than 
a plain dinner was not prepared for him. 
I have heard him say on such an occasion, 
"This was a good dinner enough, [2150 
to be sure: but it was not a dinner to ask a 
man to." On the other hand, he was 
wont to express, with great glee, his satis- 
faction when he had been entertained 
quite to his mind. One day when he had 
dined with his neighbor and landlord, in 
Bolt-court, Mr. Allen, the printer, whose 
old housekeeper had studied his taste in 
every thing, he pronounced this eulogy: 
"Sir, we could not have had a [2160 
better dinner, had there been a Synod of 
Cooks.'' 

While we were left by ourselves, after 
the Dutchman had gone to bed. Dr. 
Johnson talked of that studied behavior 
which many have recommended and 
practised. He disapproved of it; and 
said, "I never considered whether I 
should be a grave man, or a merry man, 
but just let inchnation, for the time, [2170 
have its course." 

He flattered me \\ith some hopes that 
he would, in the course of the following 
summer, come over to Holland, and 
accompany me in a tour through the 
Netherlands. 

I teased him with fanciful apprehen- 
sions of unhappiness. A moth having 
fluttered round the candle, and burnt it- 
self, he laid hold of this Httle incident [2180 
to admonish me; saying, with a sly look, 
and in a solemn but a quiet tone, "That 
creature was its own tormentor, and I 
believe its name was Boswell." 

Next day we got to Harwich, to dirmer; 
and my passage in the packet-boat to 
Helvoetsluys being secured, and my bag- 



322 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



gage put on board, we dined at our inn 
by ourselves. I happened to say, it 
would be terrible if he should not [2190 
find a speedy opportunity of returning to 
London, and be confined in so dull a 
place. Johnson. "Don't, Sir, accustom 
yourself to use big words for little mat- 
ters. It would not be terrible, though I 
2vere to be detained some time here." 
The practice of using words of dispropor- 
tionate magnitude, is, no doubt, too fre- 
quent ever^^vhere; but, I think, most 
remarkable among the French, of [2200 
which, all who have travelled in France 
must have been struck with innumerable 
instances. 

We went and looked at the church, and 
having gone into it, and walked up to the 
altar, Johnson, whose piety was constant 
and fervent, sent me to my knees, say- 
ing, "Now that you are going to leave 
your native country, recommend yourself 
to the protection of your Creator [2210 
and Redeemer." 

After we came out of the church, we 
stood talking for some time together of 
Bishop Berkeley's ingenious sophistry to 
prove the non-existence of matter, and 
that every thing in the universe is merely 
ideal. I observed, that though we are 
satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is 
impossible to refute it. I never shall for- 
get the alacrity with which John- [2220 
son answered, striking his foot with 
mighty force against a large stone, till he 
rebounded from it, — "I refute it thus.'' 
This was a stout exemplification of the 
first truths of Pere Bouffier, or the original 
principles of Reid and of Beattie; without 
admitting which, we can no more argue 
in metaphysics, than we can argue in 
mathematics without axioms. To me it 
is not conceivable how Berkeley can [2230 
be answered by pure reasoning; but I know 
that the nice and difficult task was to 
have been undertaken by one of the most 
luminous minds of the present age, had not 
politics " turned him from calm philosophy 
aside." What an admirable display of sub- 
tilty, united with brilliance, might his con- 
tending with Berkeley have afforded us! 
How must we, when we reflect on the loss 
of such an intellectual feast, regret [2240 
that he should be characterised as the man, 



"Who, born for the universe, narrowed his 

mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant 

for mankind" ? 

My revered friend walked down with 
me to the beach, where we embraced and 
parted with tenderness, and engaged to 
correspond by letters. I said, "I hope, 
Sir, you will not forget me in my absence." 
Johnson. "Nay, Sir, it is more Likely 
you should forget me, than that I [2250 
should forget you." As the vessel put out 
to sea, I kept my eyes upon him for a 
considerable time, while he remained 
rolling his majestic frame in his usual 
manner; and at last I perceived him walk 
back into the town, and he disappeared. 



EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797) 
TO THE ELECTORS OF BRISTOL, 

on his being declared by the sheriffs, 

DIILY elected one OF THE REPRESENT- 
ATIVES IN PARLIAMENT FOR THAT CITY, 

On Thursday the Third of November, 1774 

Gentlemen: I cannot avoid sympathiz- 
ing strongly with the feelings of the gentle- 
man who has received the same honor 
that you have conferred on me. If he, 
who was bred and passed his whole hfe 
amongst you; if he, who through the 
easy gradations of acquaintance, friend- 
ship, and esteem, has obtained the honor, 
which seems of itself, naturally and al- 
most insensibly, to meet with those, [10 
who by the even tenor of pleasing man- 
ners and social virtues, slide into the love 
and confidence of their fellow-citizens; — 
if he cannot speak but with great emotion 
on this subject, surrounded as he is on all 
sides %Adth his old friends; you will have 
the goodness to excuse me, if my real, un- 
affected embarrassment prevents me from 
expressing my gratitude to you as I ought. 

I was brought hither under the dis- [20 
advantage of being unknown, even by 
sight, to any of you. No previous canvass 
was made for me. I was put in nomina- 
tion after the poll was opened. I did not 



BURKE 



323 



appear until it was far advanced. If, 
under all these accumulated disadvan- 
tages, your good opinion has carried me 
to this happy point of success, you will 
pardon me, if I can only say to you col- 
lectively, as I said to you individually, [30 
simply, and plainly, I thank you — I am 
obliged to you— I am not insensible of 
your kindness. 

This is all that I am able to say for the 
inestimable favor you have conferred 
upon me. But I cannot be satisfied, 
without saying a little more in defence of 
the right you have to confer such a favor. 
The person that appeared here as counsel 
for the candidate who so long and so [40 
earnestly sohcited your votes, thinks 
■proper to deny, that a very great part of 
you have any votes to give. He fixes a 
standard period of time in his own imag- 
ination, not what the law defines, but 
merely what the convenience of his client 
suggests, by which he would cut off, at 
one stroke, all those freedoms which are 
the dearest privileges of your corporation ; 
which the common law authorizes; [50 
which your magistrates are compelled to 
grant; which come duly authenticated 
into this court; and are saved in the 
clearest words, and -^dth the most religious 
care and tenderness, in that very act of 
parliament which was made to regulate 
the elections by freemen, and to prevent 
all possible abuses in making them. 

I do not intend to argue the matter 
here. My learned counsel has sup- [60 
ported your cause -with his usual ability; 
the worthy sherift's have acted with their 
usual equity, and I have no doubt that 
the same equity which dictates the re- 
turn, will guide the final determination. 
I had the honor, in conjunction with 
many far wiser men, to contribute a very 
small assistance, but, however, some 
assistance, to the forming the judicature 
which is to try such questions. It [70 
would be unnatural in me to doubt the 
justice of that court, in the trial of my 
own cause, to which I have been so active 
to give jurisdiction over every other. 

I assure the worthy freemen, and this 
corporation, that, if the gentleman per- 
severes in the intentions which his present 
warmth dictates to him, I will attend their 



cause with diligence, and I hope with 
effect. For, if I know anything of my- [80 
self, it is not my own interest in it, but my 
full conviction, that induces me to tell 
you — / think there is not a shadow of doubt 
in the case. 

I do not imagine that you find me rash 
in declaring myself, or very forward in 
troubUng you. From the beginning to 
the end of the election, I have kept 
silence in all matters of discussion. I 
have never asked a question of a voter [90 
on the other side, or supported a doubtful 
vote on my own. I respected the abilities 
of my managers; I relied on the candor 
of the court. I think the worthy sheriffs 
will bear me witness, that I have never 
once made an attempt to impose upon 
their reason, to surprise their justice, or 
to ruffle their temper. I stood on the 
hustings (except when I gave my thanks 
to those who favored me with their [100 
votes) less like a candidate, than an un- 
concerned spectator of a public proceed- 
ing. But here the face of things is al- 
tered. Here is an attempt for a general 
massacre of suffrages; an attempt, by a 
promiscuous carnage of friends and foes, 
to exterminate above two thousand votes, 
including seroen hundred polled for the 
gentleman himself, who now complains, 
and who would destroy the friends [no 
whom he has obtained, only because he 
cannot obtain as many of them as he 
wishes. 

How he will be permitted, in another 
place, to stultify and disable himself, and 
to plead against his own acts, is another 
question. The law will decide it. I shall 
only speak of it as it concerns the pro- 
priety of public conduct in this city. I 
do not pretend to lay down rules of [120 
decorum for other gentlemen. They are 
best judges of the mode of proceeding that 
^\ill recommend them to the favor of their 
fellow-citizens. But I confess I should 
look rather awkward, if I had been the 
very first to produce the new copies of free- 
dom, if I had persisted in producing them 
to the last; if I had ransacked, with the 
most unremitting industry and the most 
penetrating research, the remotest [130 
corners of the kingdom to discover them; 
if I were then, all at once, to turn short. 



324 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



and declare that I had been sporting all 
this while with the right of election; and 
that I had been drawing out a poll, upon 
no sort of rational grounds, which dis- 
turbed the peace of my fellow-citizens for 
a month together — I really, for my part, 
should appear awkward under such cir- 
cumstances. [140 

It would be still more awkward in me, 
if I were gravely to look the sheriffs in 
the face, and to tell them they were not 
to determine my cause on my own prin- 
ciples; not to make the return upon those j 
votes upon which I had rested my elec- 
tion. Such would be my appearance to 
the court and magistrates. 

But how should I appear to the voters 
themselves? If I had gone round to [150 
the citizens entitled to freedom, and 
squeezed them by the hand — "Sir, I 
humbly beg your vote — I shall be eternally 
thankful — may I hope for the honor of 
your support? — Well ! — come — we shall 
see you at the council-house." — If I were 
then to deliver them to my managers, 
pack them into tallies, vote them off in 
court, and when I heard from the bar — 
"Such a one only! and such a one for [160 
ever! — he's my man!" — "Thank you, 
good Sir — Hah! my worthy friend! thank 
you kindly — that's an honest fellow — 
how is your good family?" — Whilst these 
words were hardly out of my mouth, if I 
should have wheeled round at once, and 
told them — "Get you gone, you pack of 
worthless fellows! you have no votes — 
you are usurpers ! you are intruders on the 
rights of real freemen! I will have [170 
nothing to do with you! you ought never 
to have been produced at this election, 
and the sheriffs ought not to have ad- 
mitted you to poll." 

Gentlemen, I should make a strange 
figure if my conduct had been of this sort. 
I am not so old an acquaintance of yours 
as the worthy gentleman. Indeed I could 
not have ventured on such kind of free- 
doms with you. But I am bound, and [180 
I will endeavor, to have justice done to 
the rights of freemen; even though I 
should, at the same time, be obliged to 
vindicate the former part of my antago- 
nist's conduct against his own present 
inclinations. 



I owe myself, in all things, to all the 
freemen of this city. My particular 
friends have a demand on me that I should 
not deceive their expectations. [190 
Never was cause or man supported with 
more constancy, more activity, more 
spirit. I have been supported with a zeal 
indeed and heartiness in my friends, 
which (if their object had been at all pro- 
portioned to their endeavors) could never 
be sufficiently commended. They sup- 
ported me upon the most liberal prin- 
ciples. They wished that the members 
for Bristol should be chosen for the [200 
city, and for their country at large, and 
not for themselves. 

So far they are not disappointed. If 
I possess nothing else, I am sure I possess 
the temper that is fit for your service. I 
know nothing of Bristol, but by the 
favors I have received, and the virtues I 
have seen exerted in it. 

I shall ever retain, what I now feel, the 
most perfect and grateful attach- [210 
ment to my friends — and I have no 
enmities, no resentment. I never can 
consider fidelity to engagements, and con- 
stancy in friendships, but with the high- 
est approbation; even when those noble 
qualities are employed against my own 
pretensions. The gentleman, who is not 
so fortunate as I have been in this con- 
test, enjoys, in this respect, a consolation 
full of honor both to himself and to [220 
his friends. They have certainly left 
nothing undone for his service. 

As for the trifling petulance which 
the rage of party stirs up in little minds, 
though it should show itself even in this 
court, it has not made the slightest im- 
pression on me. The highest flight of 
such clamorous birds is winged in an in- 
ferior reign of the air. We hear them, 
and we look upon them, just as you, [230 
gentlemen, when you enjoy the serene air 
on your lofty rocks, look down upon the 
gulls that skim the mud of your river, 
when it is exhausted of its tide. 

I am sorry I cannot conclude without 
saying a word on a topic touched upon 
by my worthy colleague. I wish that 
topic had been passed by at a time when 
I have so little leisure to discuss it. But 
since he has thought proper to throw [240 



BURKE 



325 



it out, I owe you a clear explanation of 
my poor sentiments on that subject. 

He tells you that ' ' the topic of instruc- 
tions has occasioned much altercation 
and uneasiness in this city;" and he ex- 
presses himself (if I understand him 
rightly) in favor of the coercive authority 
of such instructions. 

Certainly, gentlemen, it ought to be the 
happiness and glory of a representa- [250 
tive to live in the strictest union, the 
closest correspondence, and the most 
unreserved communication with his con- 
stituents. Their wishes ought to have 
great weight with him; their opinion, 
high respect; their business, unremitted 
attention. It is his duty to sacrifice his 
repose, his pleasures, his satisfactions, to 
theirs; and above all, ever, and in all cases, 
to prefer their interest to his own. [260 
But his unbiassed opinion, his mature 
judgment, his enlightened conscience, 
he ought not to sacrifice to you, to any 
man, or to any set of men living. These 
he does not derive from your pleasure; 
no, nor from the law and the constitution. 
They are a trust from Providence, for 
the abuse of which he is deeply answer- 
able. Your representative owes you, not 
his industry only, but his judgment; [270 
and he betrays, instead of serving you, 
if he sacrifices it to your opinion. 

My worthy colleague says, his will 
ought to be subservient to yours. If that 
be all, the thing is innocent. If govern- 
ment were a matter of will upon any side, 
yours, without question, ought to be su- 
perior. But government and legislation 
are matters of reason and judgment, and 
not of inclination; and what sort of [280 
reason is that, in which the determination 
precedes the discussion; in which one set 
of men deliberate, and another decide; 
and where those who form the con- 
clusion are perhaps three hundred miles 
distant from those who hear the argu- 
ments? 

To deliver an opinion is the right of 
all men; that of constituents is a weighty 
and respectable opinion, which a [290 
representative ought always to rejoice to 
hear; and which he ought always most 
seriously to consider. But authoritative 
instructions; mandates issued, which the 



member is bound blindly and implicitly to 
obey, to vote, and to argue for, though 
contrary to the clearest conviction of his 
judgment and conscience — these are 
things utterly unknown to the laws of 
this land, and which arise from a [300 
fundamental mistake of the whole order 
and tenor of our constitution. 

ParHament is not a congress of ambas- 
sadors from different and hostile in- 
terests; which interests each must main- 
tain, as an agent and advocate, against 
other agents and advocates; but parlia- 
ment is a deliberative assembly of one 
nation, with one interest, that of the 
whole; where, not local purposes, not [310 
local prejudices, ought to guide, but the 
general good, resulting from the general 
reason of the whole. You choose a mem- 
ber indeed; but when you have chosen 
him, he is not member of Bristol, but he 
is a member of parliament. If the local 
constituent should have an interest, or 
should form an hasty opinion, evidently 
opposite to the real good of the rest of 
the community, the member for that [320 
place ought to be as far as any other from 
any endeavor to give it effect. I beg 
pardon for saying so much on this sub- 
ject. I have been unwillingly drawn 
into it; but I shall ever use a respectful 
frankness of communication with you. 
Your faithful friend, your devoted serv- 
ant, I shall be to the end of my life; a 
flatterer you do not wish for. On this 
point of instructions, however, I think [330 
it scarcely possible we ever can have any 
sort of difference. Perhaps I may give 
you too much, rather than too little, 
trouble. 

From the first hour I was encouraged 
to court your favor, to this happy day of 
obtaining it, I have never promised you 
anything but humble and persevering 
endeavors to do my duty. The weight 
of that duty, I confess, makes me [340 
tremble; and whoever well considers what 
it is, of all things in the world, will fly 
from what has the least likeness to a 
positive and precipitate engagement. To 
be a good member of parliament is, let me 
tell you, no easy task; especially at this 
time, when there is so strong a disposition 
to run into the perilous extremes of servile 



326 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



compliance or wild popularity. To unite 
circumspection with vigor, is abso- [350 
lutely necessary; but it is extremely 
difficult. We are now members for a rich 
commercial city; this city, however, is 
but a part of a rich commercial nation, 
the interests of which are various, multi- 
form, and intricate. We are members 
for that great nation, which, however, is 
itself but part of a great empire, extended 
by our virtue and our fortune to the 
farthest limits of the east and of the [360 
west. All these wide-spread interests 
must be considered; must be compared; 
must be reconciled, if possible. We are 
members for Q,free country; and surely we 
all know, that the machine of a free con- 
stitution is no simple thing; but as intri- 
cate and as delicate as it is valuable. 
We are members in a great and ancient 
monarchy; and we must preserve reli- 
giously the true legal rights of the [370 
sovereign, which form the key-stone that 
binds together the noble and well-con- 
structed arch of our empire and our con- 
stitution. A constitution made up of 
balanced powers must ever be a critical 
thing. As such I mean to touch that part 
of it which comes within my reach. I 
know my inability, and I wish for support 
from every quarter. In particular I shall 
aim at the friendship, and shall culti- [380 
vate the best correspondence, of the 
worthy colleague you have given me. 

I trouble you no further than once 
more to thank you all; you, gentlemen, 
for your favors; the candidates, for their 
temperate and polite behavior; and the 
sheriffs, for a conduct which may give a 
model for all who are in public stations. 



From THE IMPEACHMENT OF 
WARREN HASTINGS 

The Charge 

I, therefore, charge Mr. Hastings 
with having destroyed, for private pur- 
poses, the whole system of government 
by the six provincial councils, which he 
had no right to destroy. 

I charge him with having delegated to 
others that power which the act of parlia- 



ment had directed him to preserve un- 
alienably in himself. 

I charge him with having formed a [10 
committee to be mere instruments and 
tools, at the enormous expenses of 
£62,000 per annum. 

I charge him with having appointed a 
person their dewan, to whom these Eng- 
lishmen were to be subservient tools; 
whose name, to his own knowledge, was 
by the general voice of India, by the 
general recorded voice of the Company, 
by recorded official transactions, by [20 
everything that can make a man known, 
abhorred and detested, stamped with 
infamy; and with giving him the whole 
power which he had thus separated from 
the council-general and from the provin- 
cial councils. 

I charge him with taking bribes of 
Gunga Govin Sing. 

I charge him with not having done that 
bribe service which fidelity even in [30 
iniquity requires at the hands of the 
worst of men. 

I charge him with having robbed those 
people of whom he took the bribes. 

I charge him with having fraudulently 
alienated the fortunes of widows. 

I charge him with having, without 
right, title, or purchase, taken the lands 
of orphans, and given them to wicked 
persons under him. [40 

I charge him with having removed the 
natural guardians of a minor Rajah, and 
with having given that trust to a stranger, 
Debi Sing, whose wickedness was known 
to himself and all the world; and by 
whom the Rajah, his family, and de- 
pendants, were cruelly oppressed. 

I charge him with having committed 
to the management of Debi Sing three 
great provinces; and thereby, with [50 
having wasted the country, ruined the 
landed interest, cruelly harassed the 
peasants, burnt their houses, seized their 
crops, tortured and degraded their per- 
sons, and destroyed the honor of the whole 
female race of that country. 

In the name of the Commons of Eng- 
land, I charge all this villany upon Warren 
Hastings, in this last moment of my ap- 
plication to you. [60 

My lords, what is it that we want here 



BURKE 



327 



to a great act of national justice? Do 
we want a cause, my lords? You have 
the cause of oppressed princes, of undone 
women of the first rank, of desolated 
provinces, and of wasted kingdoms. 

Do you want a criminal, my lords? 
When was there so much iniquity ever 
laid to the charge of any one? — No, my 
lords, you must not look to punish any [70 
other such delinquent from India. — 
Warren Hastings has not left substance 
enough in India to nourish such another 
delinquent. 

My lords, is it a prosecutor you want?^ 
You have before you the Commons of 
Great Britain as prosecutors; and, I 
believe, my lords, that the sun in his 
beneficent progress round the world does 
not behold a more glorious sight than [80 
that of men, separated from a remote 
people by the material bounds and bar- 
riers of nature, united by the bond of a 
social and moral community; — all the 
Commons of England resenting, as their 
own, the indignities and cruelties that 
are offered to all the people of India. 

Do we want a tribunal? My lords, no 
example of antiquity, nothing in the 
modern world, nothing in the range of [90 
human imagination, can supply us with a 
tribunal like this. My lords, here we see 
virtually in the mind's eye that sacred 
majesty of the Crown, under whose au- 
thority you sit, and whose power you 
exercise. We see in that invisible au- 
thority, what we all feel in reality and 
life, the beneficent powers and protecting 
justice of his Majesty. We have here the 
heir-apparent to the Crown, such as [100 
the fond wishes of the people of England 
wish an heir-apparent of the Crown to 
be. We have here all the branches of the 
royal family in a situation between maj- 
esty and subjection, between the sov- 
ereign and the subject, — offering a pledge 
in that situation for the support of the 
rights of the Crown and the liberties of 
the people, both which extremities they 
touch. My lords, we have a great [no 
hereditary peerage here; those who have 
their own honor, the honor of their an- 
cestors, and of their posterity, to guard; 
and who will justify, as they have always 
justified, that provision in the constitu- 



tion by which justice is made an heredi- 
tary office. My lords, we have here a 
new nobility, who have risen and exalted 
themselves by various merits, by great 
military services, which have ex- [120 
tended the fame of this country from 
the rising to the setting sun: we have 
those who by various civil merits and 
various civil talents have been exalted 
to a situation which they well deserve, 
and in which they will justify the favor 
of their sovereign, and the good opin- 
ion of their fellow-subjects, and make 
them rejoice to see those virtuous charac- 
ters, that were the other day upon a [130 
level with them, now exalted above them 
in rank, but feeling with them in sympathy 
what they felt in common with them 
before. We have persons exalted from 
the practice of the law, from the place 
in which they administered high though 
subordinate justice, to a seat here, to 
enlighten with their knowledge and to 
strengthen with their votes those prin- 
ciples which have distinguished the [140 
courts in which they have presided. 

My lords, you have here also the lights 
of our religion; you have the bishops of 
England. My lords, you have that true 
image of the primitive church in its an- 
cient form, in its ancient ordinances, 
purified from the superstitions and the 
vices which a long succession of ages 
will bring upon the best institutions. You 
have the representatives of that re- [150 
ligion which says that their God is love, 
that the very vital spirit of their institu- 
tion is charity; a religion which so much 
hates oppression, that when the God 
whom we adore appeared in human form, 
He did not appear in a form of great- 
ness and majesty, but in sympathy with 
the lowest of the people, — and thereby 
made it a firm and ruling principle, that 
their welfare was the object of all [160 
government; since the person, who was 
the Master of Nature, chose to appear 
Himself in a subordinate situation. These 
are the considerations which influence 
them, which animate them, and will 
animate them, against all oppression; 
knowing, that He who is called first among 
them, and first among us all, both of 
the flock that is fed and of those who 



328 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



feed it, made Himself ''the servant [170 
of all." 

My lords, these are the securities which 
we have in all the constituent parts of 
the body of this House. We know them, 
we reckon, we rest upon them, and com- 
mit safely the interests of India and of 
humanity into your hands. Therefore, 
it is with confidence that, ordered by 
the Commons, 

I impeach Warren Hastings, Esq., [180 
of high crimes and misdemeanors. 

I impeach him in the name of the 
Commons of Great Britain in parliament 
assembled, whose parliamentary trust he 
has betrayed. 

I impeach him in the name of all the 
Commons of Great Britain, whose na- 
tional character he has dishonored. 

I impeach him in the name of the peo- 
ple in India, whose laws, rights, and [190 
liberties he has subverted, whose proper- 
ties he has destroyed, whose country he 
has laid waste and desolate. 

I impeach him in the name and by 
virtue of those eternal laws of justice 
which he has violated. 

I impeach him in the name of human 
nature itself, which he has cruelly out- 
raged, injured, and oppressed in both 
sexes, in every age, rank, situation, [200 
and condition of life. 

The Peroration 

My lords, I have done; the part of the 
Commons is concluded. With a trembling 
solicitude we consign this product of our 
long, long labors to your charge. Take 
it! — take it! It is a sacred trust. Never 
before was a cause of such magnitude 
submitted to any human tribunal. 

My lords, at this awful close, in the 
name of the Commons, and surrounded 
by them, I attest the retiring, I attest [10 
the advancing generations, between which, 
as a link in the great chain of eternal 
order, we stand. — We call this nation, 
we call the world to witness, that the Com- 
mons have shrunk from no labor; that 
we have been guilty of no prevarication; 
that we have made no compromise with 
crime; that we have not feared any odium 
whatsoever, in the long warfare which 



we have carried on with the crimes — [20 
with the vices — with the exorbitant 
wealth — with the enormous and over- 
powering influence of Eastern corruption. 
This war, my lords, we have waged for 
twenty-two years, and the conflict has 
been fought at your lordships' bar for 
the last seven years. My lords, twenty- 
two years is a great space in the scale of 
the life of man; it is no inconsiderable 
space in the history of a great nation. [30 
A business which has so long occupied 
the councils and the tribunals of Great 
Britain, cannot possibly be huddled over 
in the course of vulgar, trite, and transi- 
tory events. Nothing but some of those 
great revolutions that break the tradi- 
tionary chain of human memory, and 
alter the very face of nature itself, can 
possibly obscure it. My lords, we are all 
elevated to a degree of importance [40 
by it; the meanest of us will, by means 
of it, more or less become the concern of 
posterity, if we are yet to hope for such 
a thing in the present state of the world 
as a recording, retrospective, civilized 
posterity; but this is in the hands of the 
great Disposer of events: it is not ours to 
settle how it shall be. My lords, your 
House yet stands; it stands as a great 
edifice; but let me say, that it stands [50 
in the midst of ruins; in the midst of the 
ruins that have been made by the greatest 
moral earthquake that ever convulsed 
and shattered this globe of ours. My 
lords, it has pleased Providence to place 
us in such a state, that we appear every 
moment to be upon the verge of some 
great mutations. There is one thing, 
and one thing only, which defies all muta- 
tion; that which existed before the [60 
world, and will survive the fabric of the 
world itself; I mean justice; that justice, 
which, emanating from the Divinity, has 
a place in the breast of every one of us, 
given us for our guide with regard to 
ourselves and with regard to others, and 
which will stand after this globe is burned 
to ashes, our advocate or our accuser 
before the great Judge, when He comes 
to call upon us for the tenor of a well- [70 
spent life. 

My lords, the Commons will share in 
every fate with your lordships; there is 



BURKE 



329 



nothing sinister which can happen to 
you, in which we shall not be involved; 
and if it should so happen that we shall 
be subjected to some of those frightful 
changes which we have seen — if it should 
happen that your lordships, stripped of 
all the decorous distinctions of human [80 
society, should, by hands at once base 
and cruel, be led to those scaffolds and 
machines of murder, upon which great 
kings and glorious queens have shed their 
blood, amidst the prelates, amidst the 
nobles, amidst the magistrates who sup- 
ported their thrones, may you in those 
moments feel that consolation which I 
am persuaded they felt in the critical 
moments of their dreadful agony! [90 

My lords, there is a consolation, and a 
great consolation it is, which often hap- 
pens to oppressed virtue and fallen dig- 
nity; it often happens that the very op- 
pressors and persecutors themselves are 
forced to bear testimony in its favor. I 
do not like to go for instances a great way 
back into antiquity. I know very well 
that length of time operates so as to give 
an air of the fabulous to remote events, [100 
which lessens the interest and weakens 
the application of examples. I wish to 
come nearer to the present time. Your 
lordships know and have heard, for which 
of us has not known and heard, of the 
parliament of Paris? The parliament 
of Paris had an origin very, very similar 
to that of the great court before which 
I stand; the parliament of Paris con- 
tinued to have a great resemblance [no 
to it in its constitution, even to its fall; 
the parliament of Paris, my lords, was; 
it is gone! It has passed away; it has 
vanished like a dream! It fell, pierced by 
the sword of the Compte de Mirabeau. 
And yet I will say that that man, at the 
time of his inflicting the death wound of 
that parliament, produced at once the 
shortest and the grandest funeral oration 
that ever was or could be made upon [120 
the departure of a great court of magis- 
tracy. Though he had himself smarted 
vmder its lash, as every one knows who 
knows his history (and he was elevated to 
dreadful notoriety in history), yet when 
he pronounced the death sentence upon 
that parhament, and inflicted the mortal 



wound, he declared that his motives for 
doing it were merely pohtical, and that 
their hands were as pure as those of [130 
justice itself, which they administered — 
a great and glorious exit, my lords, of a 
great and glorious body! And never was 
a eulogy pronounced upon a body more 
deserved. They were persons in nobility 
of rank, in amplitude of fortune, in weight 
of authority, in depth of learning, inferior 
to few of those that hear me. My lords, 
it was but the other day that they sub- 
mitted their necks to the axe; but [140 
their honor was unwounded. Their ene- 
mies, the persons who sentenced them to 
death, were lawyers, full of subtlety; they 
were enemies, full of malice; yet lawyers 
full of subtlety, and enemies full of 
malice, as they were, they did not dare 
to reproach them with having supported 
the wealthy, the great, and powerful, and 
of having oppressed the weak and feeble, 
in any of their judgments, or of having [150 
perverted justice in any one instance 
whatever, through favor, through in- 
terest, or cabal. 

My lords, if you must fall, may you so 
fall! But if you stand, and stand I trust 
you will, together with the fortune of 
this ancient monarchy — together with the 
ancient laws and liberties of this great 
and illustrious kingdom, may you stand 
as unimpeached in honor as in power; [160 
may you stand not as a substitute for 
virtue, but as an ornament of virtue, as a 
security for virtue; may you stand long, 
and long stand the terror of tyrants; may 
you stand the refuge of afflicted nations; 
may you stand a sacred temple, for the 
perpetual residence of an inviolable justice. 



From REFLECTIONS ON THE 
REVOLUTION IN FRANCE 

The Rights of Men 

Far am I from denying in theory, full 
as far is my heart from \A'ithholding in 
practice (if I were of power to give or to 
^^^lthhold), the real rights of men. In 
denying their false claims of right, I do 
not mean to injure those which are real, 
and are such as their pretended rights 
would totally destroy. If civil society 



330 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



be made for the advantage of man, ail 
the advantages for which it is made [lo 
become his right. It is an institution of 
beneficence; and law itself is only benefi- 
cence acting by a rule. Men have a right 
to live by that rule; they have a right to 
do justice, as between their fellows, 
whether their fellows are in public func- 
tion or in ordinary occupation. They 
have a right to the fruits of their industry; 
and to the means of making their indus- 
try fruitful. They have a right to the [20 
acquisitions of their parents; to the nour- 
ishment and improvement of their off- 
spring; to instruction in life, and to con- 
solation in death. Whatever each man 
can separately do, without trespassing 
upon others, he has a right to do for him- 
self; and he has a right to a fair portion of 
all which society, with all its combina- 
tions of skill and force, can do in his 
favor. In this partnership all men [30 
have equal rights; but not to equal things. 
He that has but five shillings in the part- 
nership, has as good a right to it, as he 
that has five hundred pounds has to his 
larger proportion. But he has not a 
right to an equal dividend in the product 
of the joint stock; and as to the share of 
power, authority, and direction which 
each individual ought to have in the 
management of the state, that I must [40 
deny to be amongst the direct original 
rights of man in civil society; for I have 
in my contemplation the civil social man, 
and no other. It is a thing to be settled 
by convention. 

If civil society be the offspring of con- 
vention, that convention must be its law. 
That convention must limit and modify 
all the descriptions of constitution which 
are formed under it. Every sort of [50 
legislative, judicial, or executory power 
are its creatures. They can have no 
being in any other state of things; and 
how can any man claim under the con- 
ventions of civil society, rights which do 
not so much as suppose its existence? 
rights which are absolutely repugnant to 
it? One of the first motives to civil so- 
ciety, and which becomes one of its funda- 
mental rules, is, that no man should [60 
be judge in his own cause. By this each 
person has at once divested himself of 



the first fundamental right of uncon- 
venanted man, that is, to judge for himself, 
and to assert his own cause. He abdicates 
all right to be his own governor. He in- 
clusively, in a great measure, abandons 
the right of self-defence, the first law of 
nature. Men cannot enjoy the rights of 
an uncivil and of a civil state together. [70 
That he may obtain justice, he gives up 
his right of determining what it is in points 
the most essential to him. That he may 
secure some liberty, he makes a sur- 
render in trust of the whole of it. 

Government is not made in virtue of 
natural rights, which may and do exist 
in total independence of it; and exist in 
much greater clearness, and in a much 
greater degree of abstract perfection; [80 
but their abstract perfection is their prac- 
tical defect. By having a right to every- 
thing they want everything. Government 
is a contrivance of human wisdom to 
provide for human wants. Men have a 
right that these wants should be pro- 
vided for by this wisdom. Among these 
wants is to be reckoned the want, out of 
civil society, of a sufficient restraint upon 
their passions. Society requires not [90 
only that the passions of individuals 
should be subjected, but that even in the 
mass and body, as well as in the indi- 
viduals, the inclinations of men should 
frequently be thwarted, their will con- 
trolled, and their passions brought into 
subjection. This can only be done hy a 
power out of themselves; and not, in the 
exercise of its function, subject to that 
will and to those passions which it is [100 
its office to bridle and subdue. In this 
sense the restraints on men, as well as 
their liberties, are to be reckoned amongst 
their rights. But as the liberties and the 
restrictions vary with times and circum- 
stances, and admit of infinite modifica- 
tions, they cannot be settled upon any 
abstract rule; and nothing is so foolish 
as to discuss them upon that principle. 

The moment you abate anything [no 
from the full rights of men, each to govern 
himself, and suffer any artificial, positive 
limitation upon those rights, from that 
moment the whole organization of govern- 
ment becomes a consideration of con- 
venience. This it is which makes the 



BURKE 



iZT- 



constitution of a state, and the due dis- 
tribution of its powers, a matter of the 
most delicate and compHcated skill. It 
requires a deep knowledge of human [120 
nature and human necessities, and of the 
things which facilitate or obstruct the 
various ends, which are to be pursued 
by the mechanism of civil institutions. 
The state is to have recruits to its strength, 
and remedies to its distempers. What is 
the use of discussing a man's abstract 
right to food or medicine? The question 
is upon the method of procuring and 
administering them. In that delibera- [130 
tion I shall always advise to call in the 
aid of the farmer and the physician, rather 
than the professor of metaphysics. 

The science of constructing a common- 
wealth, or renovating it, or reforming it, 
is, like every other experimental science, 
not to be taught a priori. Nor is it a 
short experience that can instruct us in 
that practical science; because the real 
effects of moral causes are not always [140 
immediate; but that which in the first 
instance is prejudicial may be excellent 
in its remoter operation ; and its excellence 
may arise even from the ill effects it pro- 
duces in the beginning. The reverse also 
happens: and very plausible schemes, 
with very pleasing commencements, have 
often shameful and lamentable conclu- 
sions. In states there are often some 
obscure and almost latent causes, [150 
things which appear at first view of little 
moment, on which a very great part of its 
prosperity or adversity may most essen- 
tially depend. The science of government 
being therefore so practical in itself, and 
intended for such practical purposes, a 
matter which requires experience, and 
even more experience than any person 
can gain in his whole life, however saga- 
cious and observing he may be, it is [160 
with infinite caution that any man ought 
to venture upon pulling down an edifice, 
which has answered in any tolerable 
degree for ages the common purposes of 
society, or on building it up again, with- 
out ha\dng models and patterns of ap- 
proved utility before his eyes. 

These metaphysic rights entering into 
common life, like rays of light which 
pierce into a dense medium, are, by [170 



the laws of nature, refracted from their 
straight line. Indeed in the gross and 
complicated mass of human passions and 
concerns, the primitive rights of men 
undergo such a variety of refractions and 
reflections, that it becomes absurd to 
talk of them as if they continued in the 
simplicity of their original direction. 
The nature of man is intricate; the ob- 
jects of society are of the greatest [180 
possible complexity: and therefore no 
simple disposition or direction of power 
can be suitable either to man's nature, 
or to the quality of his affairs. When I 
hear the simplicity of contrivance aimed 
at and boasted of in any new political 
constitutions, I am at no loss to decide 
that the artificers are grossly ignorant 
of their trade, or totally negligent of their 
duty. The simple governments are [190 
fundamentally defective, to say no worse 
of them. If you were to contemplate 
society in but one point of view, all the 
simple modes of polity are infinitely 
captivating. In effect each would answer 
its single end much more perfectly than 
the more complex is able to attain all 
its complex purposes. But it is better 
that the whole should be imperfectly and 
anomalously answered, than that, [200 
while some parts are provided for with 
great exactness, others might be to- 
tally neglected, or perhaps materially 
injured, by the over-care of a favorite 
member. 

The pretended rights of these theorists 
are all extremes: and in proportion as they 
are metaphysically true, they are morally 
and politically false. The rights of men 
are in a sort of middle, incapable of [210 
definition, but not impossible to be dis- 
cerned. The rights of men in govern- 
ments are their advantages; and these 
are often in balances between differences 
of good; in compromises sometimes be- 
tween good and evil, and sometimes be- 
tween evil and evil. PoHtical reason is a 
computing principle; adding, subtracting, 
multiplying, and dividing, morally and 
not metaphysically, or mathematic- [220 
ally, true moral denominations. 

By these theorists the right of the 
people is almost always sophistically con- 
founded with their power. The body of 



332 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



the community, whenever it can come to 
act, can meet with no effectual resistance; 
but till power and right are the same, the 
whole body of them has no right incon- 
sistent with virtue, and the first of all 
virtues, prudence. Men have no [230 
right to what is not reasonable, and to 
what is not for their benefit; for though 
a pleasant writer said, Liceat perire poetis, 
when one of them, in cold blood, is said 
to have leaped into the flames of a vol- 
canic revolution, Ardentem frigidus ^tnam 
insiluit, I consider such a frolic rather as 
an unjustifiable poetic license, than as 
one of the franchises of Parnassus; and 
whether he were poet, or divine, or [240 
poHtician, that chose to exercise this kind 
of right, I think that more wise, because 
more charitable, thoughts would urge me 
rather to save the man, than to preserve 
his brazen slippers as the monuments of 
his folly. 

THE PRECURSORS OF 
ROMANTICISM 

ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1768) 

PEGGY 

My Peggy is a young thing, 
Just entered in her teens. 
Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 
Fair as the day, and always gay; 

My Peggy is a young thing, 5 

And I'm not very auld. 
Yet well I like to meet her at 
The wauking^ of the fauld. 

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly 

Whene'er we meet alane, 10 

I wish nae mair to lay my care, 
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare; 
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 

To a' the lave^ I'm cauld. 
But she gars^ a' my spirits glow 15 
At wauking of the fauld. 

My Peggy smiles sae kindly 

Whene'er I whisper love, 
That I look down on a' the town. 
That I look down upon a crown; 20 

' watching. 2 rggt. ' makes. 



My Peggy smiles sae kindly. 
It makes me blyth and bauld. 

And naething gives me sic'' delight 
As wauking of the fauld. 



25 



My Peggy sings sae saftly 
When on my pipe I play, 
By a' the rest it is confest. 
By a' the rest, that she sings best; 
My Peggy sings sae saftly. 

And in her sangs are tauld 30 

With innocence the wale^ of sense, 
At wauking of the fauld. 



THE LASS WITH A LUMP OF LAND 

Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land, 
And we for life shall gang thegither; 

Though daft^ or wise I'll never demand, 

Or black or fair it maks na whether. 

I'm aff with wit, and beauty will fade, 5 
And blood alane is no worth a shilling; 

But she that's rich, her market's made. 
For ilka'^ charm about her is killing. 

Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land, 

And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure; 10 
Gin I had anes^ her gear^ in my hand, 
Should love turn dowf,^'' it will find 
pleasure. 
Laugh on wha likes, but there's my hand, 
I hate with poortith,^^ though bonny, to 
meddle; 
Unless they bring cash or a lump of land, 15 
They'se never get me to dance to their 
fiddle. 

There's meikle good love in bands and 
bags, 
And siller and gowd's^" a sweet com- 
plexion ; 
But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags, 

Have tint^^ the art of gaining affection. 20 
Love tips his arrows with woods and parks, 
And castles, and riggs,^^ and moors, and 
meadows ; 
And naithing can catch our modern 
sparks. 
But well-tochered^^ lasses or jointured 
widows. 

* such. 5 choice. ^ foolish. ' every. ' once. 

" property, i" mournful. " poverty. '" gold. " lost. 

'■' ridge, a measure of land. >' well-dowered. 



THOMSON 



3Zi 



JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) 

THE SEASONS 

From Winter 

Through the hushed air the whitening 

shower descends, 
At first thin-wavering, till at last the 

flakes 230 

Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming 

the day 
With a continual flow. The cherished 

fields 
Put on their winter robe of purest white: 
'T is brightness all, save where the new 

snow melts 
Along the mazy current. Low the woods 
Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid 

sun 236 

Faint from the west emits his evening 

ray, 
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill. 
Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries 

wide 
The works of man. Drooping, the labor- 
er-ox 240 
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then 

demands 
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of 

heaven, 
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
The winnowing store, and claim the little 

boon 
Which Providence assigns them. One 

alone, 245 

The redbreast, sacred to the household 

gods. 
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 
In joyless fields and thorny thickets 

leaves 
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted 

man 
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first 250 
Against the window beats; then, brisk, 

alights 
On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er 

the floor, 
Eyes all the smihng family askance, 
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where 

he is; 
Till more familiar grown, the table- 
crumbs 255 



Attract his slender feet. The foodless 
wilds 

Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The 
hare. 

Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 

By death in various forms, dark snares and 
dogs, 

And more unpi tying men, the garden 
seeks, 260 

Urged on by fearless want. The bleating 
kind 

Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glis- 
tening earth. 

With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dis- 
persed, 

Dig for the withered herb through heaps 
of snow. 



As thus the snows arise, and foul and 

fierce 276 

All winter drives along the darkened air. 
In his own loose-revolving fields the swain 
Disastered stands; sees other hills ascend, 
Of unknown joyless brow, and other 

scenes, 280 

Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless 

plain ; 
Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid 
Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on 
From hill to dale, still more and more 

astray, 
Impatient flouncing through the drifted 

heaps, 285 

Stung with the thoughts of home; the 

thoughts of home 
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor 

forth 
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his 

soul! 
What black despair, what horror, fills his 

heart ! 
When for the dusky spot which fancy 

feigned, 290 

His tufted cottage rising through the snow, 
He meets the roughness of the middle 

waste. 
Far from the track and blessed abode of 

man; 
While round him night resistless closes 

fast, 
And every tempest howling o'er his 

head, 205 

Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 



334 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Then throng the busy shapes into his 

mind, 
Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, 
A dire descent ! beyond the power of frost ; 
Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, 300 
Smoothed up with snow; and what is land 

unknown, 
What water of the still unfrozen spring. 
In the loose marsh or solitary lake. 
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom 

boils. 
These check his fearful steps, and down he 
sinks 305 

Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, 
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death. 
Mixed with the tender anguish nature 

shoots 
Through the wrung bosom of the dying 

man, 
His wife, his children, and his friends, un- 
seen. 310 
In vain for him the officious wife prepares 
The fire fair blazing, and the vestment 

warm; 
In vain his little children, peeping out 
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire 
With tears of artless innocence. Alas! 315 
Nor wife nor children more shall he behold. 
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every 

nerve 
The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense, 
And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. 
Lays him along the snows a stiffened 
corse, 320 

Stretched out, and bleaching in the north- 
ern blast. 

From Summer 

Rushing thence, in one diffusive band,37i 
They drive the troubled flocks, by many a 

dog 
Compelled, to where the mazy-running 

brook 
Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and 

high. 
And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled 

shore. 375 

Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil. 
The clamor much, of men, and boys, and 

dogs. 
Ere the soft, fearful people to the flood 
Commit their woolly sides. And oft the 

swain, 



On some impatient seizing, hurls them in: 
Emboldened then, nor hesitating more, 381 
Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing 

wave. 
And, panting, labor to the farther shore. 
Repeated this, till deep the well-washed 

fleece 
Has drunk the flood, and from his lively 

haunt 385 

The trout is banished by the sordid stream; 
Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow 
Slow move the harmless race; where, as 

they spread 
Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray. 
Inly disturbed, and wondering what this 

wild 390 

Outrageous tumult means, their loud 

complaints 
The country fill — and, tossed from rock 

to rock, 
Incessant bleatings run around the hills. 
At last, of snowy white, the gathered 

flocks 
Are in the wattled pen innumerous pressed. 
Head above head; and ranged in lusty 

rows 396 

The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding 

shears. 
The housewife waits to roll her fleecy 

stores, 
With all her gay-dressed maids attending 

round. 
One, chief, in gracious dignity enthroned. 
Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, 

and rays 401 

Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shep- 
herd-king; 
While the glad circle round them yield 

their souls 
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no 

gall. 
Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace: 
Some mingling stir the melted tar, and 

some, 406 

Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving 

side, 
To stamp his master's cipher ready stand; 
Others the unwilling wether drag along; 
And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy 
Holds by the twisted horns the indignant 

ram. 4" 

Behold where bound, and of its robe 

bereft. 
By needy man, that all-depending lord, 



THOMSON 



335 



How meek, how patient, the mild creature 

lies! 
What softness in its melancholy face, 415 
What dumb complaining innocence ap- 



pears 



Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the 

knife 
Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved ; 
No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided 

shears. 
Who having now, to pay his annual 

care, 420 

Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous 

load. 
Will send you bounding ,to your hills 

again. 



From THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 10 
With woody hill o'er hill encompassed 

round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide, 
Than w^hom a fiend more fell is nowhere 

found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; 
And there a season atween June and 

May, _ _ IS 

Half prankt^ wth spring, with summer 

half imbrowned, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth 

to say. 
No living wight could work, ne cared 

even for play. 

Was nought around but images of rest: 

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns 
between; 20 

And flowery beds, that slumbrous in- 
fluence kest,^ 

From poppies breathed; and beds of 
pleasant green. 

Where never yet was creeping creature 
seen. 

Meantimeunnumbered gUttering stream- 
lets played, 

And hurled everywhere their waters 
sheen; 25 

That, as they bickered through the 
sunny glade. 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling 
murmur made. 

1 adorned. = cast. 



Joined to the prattle of the purling rills. 

Were heard the lowing herds along the 
vale. 

And flocks loud-bleating from the dis- 
tant hills, 30 

And vacant^ shepherds piping in the 
dale: 

And now and then sweet Philomel would 
wail. 

Or stock-doves plain amid the forest 
deep, 

That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; 

And still a coil the grasshopper did keep : 

Yet all the sounds yblent* inclined all to 

sleep. 36 

Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood; 
Where nought but shadowy forms were 

seen to move, 
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood : 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and 

fro, 42 

Sent forth a sleepy horror through the 

blood ; 
And where this valley winded out below. 
The murmuring main was heard, and 

scarcely heard, to flow. 45 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head^ it was : 

Of dreams that wave before the half- 
shut eye; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that 
pass. 

Forever flushing round a summer-sky. 

There eke^ the soft delights, that 
witchingly 50 

Instil a wanton sweetness through the 
breast, 

And the calm pleasures, always hov- 
ered nigh; 

But whate'er smackt of noyance,^ or 
unrest. 
Was far, far off expelled from this de- 
licious nest. 

The landscape such, inspiring perfect 
ease, 55 

Where Indolence (for so the wizard 
hight) 

Close-hid his castle mid embowering 
trees, 

3 care-free. * mingled. ^ sleepiness. ^ also. ' annoyance. 



336 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



That half shut out the beams of Phoebus 

bright, 
And made a kind of checkered day and 

night. 
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy 

gate, 60 

Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked 

wight^ 
Was placed; and to his lute, of cruel 

fate 
And labor harsh, complained, lamenting 

man's estate. 

Thither continual pilgrims crowded still. 

From all the roads of earth that pass 
there by: 65 

For, as they chanced to breathe on 
neighboring hill, 

The freshness of this valley smote their 
eye. 

And drew them ever and anon more nigh; 

Till clustering round the enchanter 
false they hung, 

Ymolten with his syren melody; 70 

While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand 
he flung. 
And to the trembhng chords these tempt- 
ing verses sung 

''Behold! ye pilgrims of this earth, 

behold! 
See all but man with unearned pleasure 

gay: 
See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, 
Broke from her wintry tomb in prime 

of May! 76 

What youthful bride can equal her 

array? 
Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? 
From mead to mead with gentle wing 

to stray, 
From flower to flower on balmy gales to 

fly, 80 

Is all she has to do beneath the radiant 

sky." 

RULE, BRITANNIA 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 

Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of the land. 

And guardian angels sang this strain: 
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! 5 
Britons never will be slaves 1 



The nations not so blest as thee, 
Must in their turns to tyrants fall. 

Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all. 10 
Rule, Britannia, etc. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; 

As the loud blast that tears the skies, 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 15 
Rule, Britannia, etc. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; 

All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 

But work their woe and thy renown. 20 
Rule, Britannia, etc. 

To thee belongs the rural reign; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; 
All thine shall be the subject main. 

And every shore it circles thine. 25 

Rule, Britannia, etc. 

The Muses, still with freedom found, 
Shall to thy happy coast repair; 

Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair! 30 
Rule, Britannia, etc. 



EDWARD YOUNG (1681-1765) 
NIGHT THOUGHTS 

From Night the First 

Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy 
Sleep ! 
He, Hke the world, his ready visit pays 
Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he 

forsakes: 
Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, 
And Hghts on lids unsullied with a tear. 5 
From short (as usual) and disturbed re- 
pose 
I wake: how happy they who wake no 

more! 
Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the 

grave. 
I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams 
Tumultuous; where my wrecked despond- 
ing thought 10 



YOUNG 



337 



From wave to wave of fancied misery 
At random drove, her helm of reason lost. 
Though now restored, 'tis only change of 

pain — 
A bitter change! — severer for severe: 
The day too short for my distress; and 

night, 15 

Even in the zenith of her dark domain, 
Is sunshine to the color of my fate. 

Night, sable goddess, from her ebon 

throne. 
In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 
Her leaden scepter o'er a slumbering world. 
Silence how dead! and darkness how pro- 
found! 21 
Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds; 
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse 
Of life stood still, and Nature made a 

pause; 
.An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. 25 
And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled: 
Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no 

more. 
Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! 

twins 
From ancient Night, who nurse the 

tender thought 
To reason, and on reason build resolve — 
That column of true majesty in man — 31 
Assist me: I will thank you in the grave; 
The grave, your kingdom; there this frame 

shall fall 
A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. 
But what are ye? Thou who didst put to 

flight _ 35 

Primeval Silence, when the morning stars. 
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball; 
O Thou! whose word from solid darkness 

struck 
That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from 

my soul; 
My soul which flies to thee, her trust, her 

treasure, 40 

As misers to their gold, while others rest. 

Through this opaque of nature and of 

soul, 
This double night, transmit one pitying 

ray 
To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my 

mind — 
A mind that fain would wander from its 

woe— _ 45 

Lead it through various scenes of life and 

death, 



And from each scene the noblest truths 

inspire. 
Nor less inspire my conduct than my song; 
Teach my best reason, reason; my best 

will 
Teach rectitude; and fix my firm resolve 50 
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear. 
Nor let the phial of thy vengeance, 

poured 
On this devoted head, be poured in vain. 



How poor, how rich, how abject, how 

august, 
How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
How passing wonder He who made him 

such! 
Who centered in our make such strange 

extremes, 70 

From different natures marvellously mixed. 
Connection exquisite of distant worlds. 
Distinguished link in being's endless chain, 
Midway from nothing to the Deity! 
A beam ethereal, suUied and absorbed, 75 
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine. 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute! 
An heir of glory, a frail child of dust, 
Helpless immortal, insect infinite, 
A worm, a god ! — I tremble at myself, 80 
And in myself am lost, at home a stranger. 
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, 

aghast. 
And wondering at her own; how reason 

reels! 
Oh, what a miracle to man is man. 
Triumphantly distressed! What joy, what 

dread, 85 

Alternately transported and alarmed! 
What can preserve my life, or what de- 
stroy? 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the 

grave; 
Legions of angels can't confine me there. 



ROBERT BLAIR (1699-1746) 
From THE GRAVE 

While some affect the sun, and some the 

shade, 
Some flee the city, some the hermitage. 
Their aims as various as the roads they 

take 



338 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



In journeying through Hfe, the task be 

mine 
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; 5 
The appointed place of rendezvous, where 

all 
These travellers meet. Thy succors I 

implore, 
Eternal King! whose potent arm sustains 
The keys of hell and death. — The Grave, 

dread thing! 
Men shiver when thou'rt named: nature, 

appalled, 10 

Shakes off her wonted firmness. — Ah, how 

dark 
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful 

wastes ! 
Where nought but silence reigns, and 

night, dark night. 
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was rolled together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. — The sickly 

taper 16 

By glimmering through thy low-browed 

misty vaults. 
Furred round with mouldy damps and 

ropy slime, 
Lets fall a supernumerary horror, 
And only serves to make thy night more 

irksome. 20 

Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, 
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to 

dwell 
Midst skulls and cofhns, epitaphs and 

worms : • 
Where light-heeled ghosts, and visionary 

shades. 
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame re- 
ports) _ 25 
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic 

rounds. 
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine. 
See yonder hallowed fane; — the pious 

work 
Of names once famed, now dubious or 

forgot. 
And buried midst the wreck of things 

which were; 30 

There lie interred the more illustrious 

dead. 
The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Me- 

thinks 
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary: 
Doors creak, and windows clap, and 

night's foul bird. 



Rooked^ in the spire, screams loud: the 

gloomy aisles, 35 

Black-plastered, and hung round with 

shreds of 'scutcheons 
And tattered coats of arms, send back the 

sound 
Laden with heavier airs, from the low 

vaults. 
The mansions of the dead. — Roused from 

their slumbers, 
In grim array the grisly spectres rise, 40 
Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, 
Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of 

night. 
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious 

sound ! 
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood 

run chill. 
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend 

elms, 45. 

(Coeval near with that) all ragged show. 
Long lashed by the rude winds. Some 

rift half down 
Their branchless trunks; others so thin 

a-top. 
That scarce two crows could lodge in the 

same tree. 
Strange things, the neighbors say, have 

happened here: 50 

Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow 

tombs ; 
Dead men have come again, and walked 

about; 
And the great bell has tolled, unrung, un- 
touched. 
(Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossip- 
ing, 
When it draws near the witching time of 

night.) 55 

Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've 

seen. 
By gUmpse of moonshine chequering 

through the trees, 
The school-boy, with his satchel in his 

hand, 
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up. 
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat 

stones, 60 

(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'er- 

grown,) 
That tell in homely phrase who lie below. 
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he 

hears, 

• cowering. 



COLLINS 



339 



The sound of something purring at his 
heels; 

Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind 
him, 6s 

Till out of breath he overtakes his fel- 
lows; 

Who gather round, and wonder at the tale 

Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, 

That walks at dead of night, or takes his 
stand 

O'er some new-opened grave; and (strange 
to tell!) 70 

Evanishes at crowing of the cock. 



WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) 

A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S 
CYMBELINE 

Sung hy Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, 
supposed to be dead 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 5 

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; 

But shepherd lads assemble here, 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen. 
No goblins lead their nightly crew ; i o 

The female fays shall haunt the green. 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The redbreast oft at evening hours 
Shall kindly lend his little aid. 

With hoary moss, and gathered flow'rs, 15 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds, and beating rain. 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 

Or midst the chase on every plain. 

The tender thought on thee shall 
dwell, 20 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 
For thee the tear be duly shed: 

Beloved till life could charm no more; 
And mourned till Pity's self be dead. 



ODE 

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF 
THE YEAR 1746 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung. 

By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 

There Honor comes, a pilgrim grey. 

To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10 

And Freedom shall awhile repair, 

To dwell a weeping hermit there! 



ODE TO EVENING 

If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest 
ear. 

Like thy own solemn springs, 

Thy springs and dying gales, 

nymph reserved, while now the bright- 
haired sun 5 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy 
skirts, 
With brede^ ethereal wove, 
O'erhang his wavy bed: 

Now air is hushed, save where the weak- 
eyed bat. 
With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern 
wing, 10 

Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: 
Now teach me, maid composed, 15 

To breathe some softened strain, 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy 

darkening vale 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit. 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial loved return! 20 

' embroidery. 



340 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



For when thy folding-star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
The fragrant Hours, and elves 
Who slept in flowers the day. 

And many a nymph who wreathes her 
brows with sedge, 25 

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier 
still, 
The pensive Pleasures sweet, 
Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then lead, calm votaress, where some 

sheety lake 
Cheers the lone heath, or some time- 
hallowed pile 30 
Or upland fallows gray 
Reflect its last cool gleam. 

But when chill blustering winds, or driv- 
ing rain. 
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the 
hut 
That from the mountain's side 35 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered 

spires. 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er 
all 
Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil. 40 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as 

oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest 
Eve; 
While Summer loves to sport 
Beneath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with 
leaves ; 45 

Or Winter, yelling through the troublous 
air, 
Affrights thy shrinking train, 
And rudely rends thy robes; 

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan 

shed. 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose- 
lipped Health, 50 
Thy gentlest influence own. 
And hymn thy favorite name! 



THE PASSIONS 

An Ode for Music 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young. 
While yet in early Greece she sung. 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Thronged around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 5 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired. 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 10 

From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound; 
And as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each, for madness ruled the hour, 15 

Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered laid. 

And back recoiled, he knew not why, 
Ev'n at the sound himself had made. 2c 

Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire. 
In lightnings owned his secret stings; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 
And swept with hurried hand the 
strings. 

With woeful measures wan Despair 25 
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
What was thy delightful measure? 30 

Still it whispered promised pleasure. 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance 
hail! 

Still would her touch the strain prolong, 
And from the rocks, the woods, the 

vale, 
She called on Echo still through all the 

song; 35 

And where her sweetest theme she 

chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every 

close, 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved 

her golden hair. 



COLLINS 



341 



And longer had she sung, — but with a 
frown 
Revenge impatient rose; 40 

He threw his blood-stained sword in 
thunder down 
And with a withering look 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of 
woe. 45 

And ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary 
pause between, 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 50 
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, 
While each strained ball of sight seemed 
bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were 
fixed, 
Sad proof of thy distressful state; 
Of differing themes the veering song was 
mixed, _ 55 

And now it courted Love, now raving 
called on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sate retired. 
And from her wild sequestered seat. 
In notes by distance made more sweet, 60 
Poured through the mellow horn her pen- 
sive soul: 
And, dashing soft from rocks around. 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled 
measure stole; 
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond 
delay 65 

Round an holy calm diffusing. 
Love of peace and lonely musing. 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But oh, how altered was its sprightlier 

tone, 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest 
hue, 70 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
rung, 
The hunter's call, to faun and dryad 
known! 



The oak-crowned sisters, and their 
chaste-eyed queen, 75 

Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, 

Peeping from forth their alleys green; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 

And Sport leaped up, and seized his 
beachen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. 80 

He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the Lively pipe his hand ad- 
dressed ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening 
viol. 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved 
the best. 
They would have thought, who heard 
the strain, 85 

They saw in Tempe's vale her native 

maids 
Amidst the festal sounding shades. 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing. 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the 
strings. 
Loved framed with Mirth a gay fan- 
tastic round; 90 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone 

unbound, 
And he, admist his frolic play. 
As if he would the charming air repay. 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy 
wings. 

O Music, sphere-descended maid, 95 

Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid. 

Why, goddess, why, to us denied, 

Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 

As in that loved Athenian bower 

You learned an all-commanding power, 100 

Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared. 

Can well recall what then it heard. 

Where is thy native simple heart, 

Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art? 

Arise as in that elder time, 105 

Warm, energic,^ chaste, sublime! 

Thy wonders, in that godlike age, 

Fill thy recording sister's page. — 

'Tis said, and I believe the tale. 

Thy humblest reed could more prevail , no 

Had more of strength, dixiner rage. 

Than all which charms this laggard age, 

Ev'n all at once together found, 

Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 

' energetic. 



342 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



bid our vain endeavors cease, 115 
Revive the just designs of Greece, 
Return in all thy simple state, 
Confirm the tales her sons relate! 



THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) 

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
ETON COLLEGE 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers. 

That crown the watry glade. 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy Shade; 
And ye, that from the stately brow 5 

Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers 

among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver- winding way: 10 

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade. 

Ah, fields beloved in vain, 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 15 

A momentary bliss bestow, 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing. 
My weary soul they seem to sooth. 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 20 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green 

The paths of pleasure trace, 
Who foremost now delight to cleave 25 
With pliant arm thy glassy wave? 

The captive linnet which enthrall? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying ball? 30 

While some on earnest business bent 

Their murm'ring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring con- 
straint 

To sweeten liberty; 
Some bold adventurers disdain 35 

The limits of their Uttle reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry: 



Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind, 
And snatch a fearful joy. 



40 



Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possessed; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast: 
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 45 

Wild wit, invention ever-new, 

And lively cheer of vigor born; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light. 

That fly the approach of morn. 50 

Alas, regardless of their doom. 

The little victims play! 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day: 
Yet see how all around 'em wait 55 

The Ministers of human fate, 

And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand 
To seize their prey the murth'rous band ! 

Ah, tell them, they are men ! 60 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind. 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behind; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 65 
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth. 

That inly gnaws the secret heart. 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 70 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 75 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye, 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 80 

Lo, in the vale of years beneath 

A griesly troop are seen, 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their Queen: 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 85 



GRAY 



343 



That every laboring sinew strains, 
Those in the deeper vitals rage; 
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 
And slow-consuming Age. 90 

To each his sufferings: all are men, 

Condemned aUke to groan. 
The tender for another's pain. 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet ah! why should they know their 

fate? 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 96 

And happiness too swiftly flies. 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 
No more; where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 100 



ELEGY 

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 

CHURCHYARD 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the 
lea, 
The plowman homeward plods his weary 
way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to 
me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on 

the sight, 5 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning 

flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 

folds; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon com- 
plain 10 
Of such, as wandering near her secret 
bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew- 
tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould- 
ering heap. 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet 
sleep. 



The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
The swallow twittering from the straw- 
built shed. 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing 
horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their 
lowly bed. 20 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall 

burn. 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to 

share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe 
has broke; 
How jocund did they drive their team 
afield! 
How bowed the woods beneath their 
sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny ob- 
scure; 30 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 
smile. 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth 
e'er gave, 

Awaits alike the inevitable hour. 35 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the 
fault. 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies 
raise. 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and 
fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of 
praise. 40 

Can storied^ urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
breath? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent 
dust, 
Or Flatter^' soothe the dull cold ear of 
Death? 

' pictured. 



344 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial 
fire; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have 
swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample 

page 

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er 

miroll ; 5° 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean 
bear: 
Full many a flower is born to blush un- 
seen, ' 55 
And waste its sweetness on the desert 
air. 

Some village Hampden, that with daunt- 
less breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may 
rest. 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's 
blood. 60 

The applause of listening senates to com- 
mand. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
And read their history in a nation's 
eyes, 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed 
alone 65 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
confined; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on man- 
kind. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth 
to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous 
shame, 70 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's 
flame. 



Far from the madding crowd's ignoble 
strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned to 
stray; 
Along the cool sequestered vale of life 75 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to pro- 
tect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculp- 
ture decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 

Their name, their years, spelt by the un- 
lettered muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moraUst to die. 

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 85 
This pleasing anxious being e'er re- 
signed. 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful 
day. 
Nor cast one longing lingering look 
behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul re- 
lies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye re- 
quires ; 90 
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature 
cries, 
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who mindful of the unhonored 
dead 
Dost in these lines their artless tale re- 
late; 
If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 95 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 
fate. 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may 
say, 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of 
dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews 
away 
To meet the sun upon the upland 
lawn. 100 



GRAY 



345 



"There at the foot of yonder nodding 
beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so 
high, 
His listless length at noontide would he 
stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles 
by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in 
scorn, 105 

Muttering his wayward fancies he 
would rove, 
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one for- 
lorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hope- 
less love. 

" One morn I missed him on the customed 
hill, 
Along the heath and near his favorite 
tree; no 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was 
he; 

"The next with dirges due in sad array 
Slow through the church-way path we 
saw him borne. 
Approach and read (for thou can'st read) 
the lay, 115 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown. 

Fair Sciettce frowned not on his humble 

birth, 

And Melancholy marked him for her 

own. 120 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 

He gave to Misery all he had, a tear. 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he 
wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 
Or draw his frailties from their dread 
abode, 

{There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



THE PROGRESS OF POESY 



A PINDARIC ODE 



The Strophe 

Awake, ^Eohan lyre, awake, 
And give to rapture all thy trembUng 

strings. 
From Helicon's harmonious springs 
A thousand rills their mazy progress take: 
The laughing flowers, that round them 

blow, 5 

Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 
Now the rich stream of music winds alon/r 
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, 
Through verdant vales, and Ceres ' golden 

reign : 
Now rolling down the steep amain, 10 

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: 
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to 

the roar. 

The Antistrophe 

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, 
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs. 
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares 15 

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. 
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War, 
Has curbed the fury of his car, 
And dropped his thirsty lance at thy 

command. 
Perching on the sceptered hand 20 

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king 
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: 
Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie 
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of 

his eye. 



The Epode 



25 



Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 
Tempered to thy warbled lay. 
O'er Idalia's velvet-green 
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 
On Cytherea's day 

With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleas- 
ures, 30 
Frisking light in froUc measures; 
Now pursuing, now retreating. 
Now in circling troops they meet: 
To brisk notes in cadence beating 
Glance their many-twinkling feet. 35 



346 



TEE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Slow melting strains their Queen's ap- 
proach declare: 

Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. 

With arms sublime,^ that float upon the 
air, 

In gliding state she wins her easy way : 

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, 
move 4° 

The bloom of young desire, and purple 
light of love. 

II 

The Strophe 

Man's feeble race what ills await. 
Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain, 
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train. 
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of 

Fate! 45 

The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 
And justify the laws of Jove. 
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly 

Muse? 
Night, and all her sickly dews. 
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, 
He gives to range the dreary sky: 51 

Till down the eastern cUffs afar 
Hyperion's march they spy, and gHttering 

shafts of war. 

The Antistrophe 

In climes beyond the solar road. 
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built moun- 
tains roam, 55 
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom, 
To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. 
And oft, beneath the odorous shade 
Of Chili's boundless forests laid. 
She deigns to hear the savage youth re- 
peat 60 
In loose numbers wildly sweet 
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky 

loves. 
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, 
Glory pursue, and generous Shame, 
The unconquerable mind, and Freedom's 
holy flame. 65 

The Epode 

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, 
Isles, that crown the ^Egean deep. 
Fields; that cool Ilissus laves. 
Or where Masander's amber waves 

1 uplifted. 



In lingering labyrinths creep, 70 

How do your tuneful echoes languish, 
Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? 
W^here each old poetic mountain 
Inspiration breathed around: 
Every shade and hallowed fountain 75 
Murmured deep a solemn sound: 
Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour 
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. 
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant- 
Power, 
And coward Vice, that revels in her 
chains. 80 

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
They sought, O Albion! next thy sea- 
encircled coast. 

Ill 

The Strophe 

Far from the sun and summer-gale, 
In thy green lap was Nature's darling 

laid. 
What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 85 
To him the mighty mother did unveil 
Her awful face: the dauntless child 
Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. 
This pencil take (she said) whose colors 

clear 
Richly paint the vernal year: • 90 

Thine too these golden keys, immortal 

boy! 
This can unlock the gates of Joy; 
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, 
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic 

tears. 

The Antistrophe 

Nor second he, that rode sublime 95 
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, 
The secrets of the Abyss to spy. 
He passed the flaming bounds of place 

and time: 
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, 
Where angels tremble, while they gaze, 100 
He saw; but blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous 

car. 
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 
Two coursers of ethereal race, 105 

With necks in thunder clothed, and long- 
resounding pace. 



GRAY 



347 



The Epode 



Hark, his hands the lyre explore! 
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er 
Scatters from her pictured urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that 

burn. no 

But ah ! 'tis heard no more 

O Lyre divine, what daring spirit 

Wakes thee now? though he inherit 

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 

That the Theban Eagle bear 115 

Sailing with supreme dominion 

Through the azure deep of air : 

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 

Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray 

With orient hues, unborrowed of the 

Sun: 120 

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant 

way 
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 
Beneath the good how far — but far above 

the great. 



THE BARD 

A PINDARIC ODE 
I 

The Strophe 

''Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! 
Confusion on thy banners wait, 
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson 

wing 
They mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 5 

Nor even thy virtues. Tyrant, shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from nightly 

fears. 
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's 

tears I" 
Such were the sounds, that o'er the 

crested pride 
Of the first Edward scattered wild dis- 
may, 10 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy 

side 
He wound with toilsome march his long 

array. 
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless 

trance; 
"To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched 

his quivering lance. 



The Antistrophe 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 15 

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
Robed in the sable garb of woe. 
With haggard eyes the Poet stood; 
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled 
air) 20 

And with a master's hand, and prophet's 

fire, 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 

"Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert 
cave. 
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice be- 
neath! 
O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms 
they wave, 25 

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs 

breathe; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
To high-bom Hoel's harp, or soft Llewel- 
lyn's lay. 

The Epode 

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue. 
That hushed the stormy main; 30 

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 
Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud- 
topped head. 
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 35 

Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale: 
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; 
The famished eagle screams, and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, 
Dear, as the light that visits these sad 
eyes, 40 

Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my 

heart. 
Ye died amidst your dying country's 
cries — 
No more I weep. They do not sleep. 
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, 
I see them sit, they linger yet, 45 

Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join. 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of 
thy line: — ■ 

II 
The Strophe 

" 'Weave the warp, and weave the woof. 
The winding sheet of Edward's race. 50 



548 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Give ample room, and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night, 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death, through Berkley's 

roofs that ring, 55 

Shrieks of an agonising king! 
She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting 

fangs. 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled 

mate, 
From thee be born, who o'er thy country 

hangs 
The scourge of Heaven. What terrors 

round him wait! 60 

Amazement in his van, with flight com- 
bined, 
And sorrow's faded form, and solitude 

behind. 

The Antistrophe 

" ' Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, 
Low on his funeral couch he lies! 
No pitying heart, no eye, afford 65 

A tear to grace his obsequies. 

Is the sable warrior fled? 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the 

dead. 
The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam 

were born? 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 70 

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr 

blows. 
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; 
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the 

helm; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's 

sway, 75 

That, hushed in grim repose, expects his 

evening prey. 

The Epode 

"'Fill high the sparkling bowl, 
The rich repast prepare; 
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the 

feast. 
Close by the regal chair 80 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 

Heard ye the din of battle bray. 
Lance to lance and horse to horse? 
Long years of havoc urge their destined 
course, 85 



And through the kindred squadrons mow 

their way. 
Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting 

shame. 
With many a foul and midnight murther 

fed. 
Revere his consort's faith, his father's 

fame. 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 90 
Above, below, the rose of snow. 
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: 
The bristled Boar in infant-gore 
Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed 

loom 95 

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify 

his doom. 

Ill 

The Strophe 

'"Edward, lo! to sudden fate 

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 

Half of thy heart we consecrate. 

(The web is wove. The work is done.) ' — 
Stay , oh stay ! nor thus forlorn loi 

Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to 
mourn ! 

In yon bright track, that fires the western 
skies. 

They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snow- 
don's height 105 

Descending slow their glittering skirts 
unroll? 

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! 

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 

All-hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's 
issue, hail! Ho 

The Antistrophe 

" Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear; 
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine! 115 

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face. 
Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the 

air, 
What strains of vocal transport round her 

play ! 120 



GRAY 



349 



Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, 
hear; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy 
day. 

Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she 
sings. 

Waves in the eye of Heaven her many- 
colored wings. 

The Epode 

" The verse adorn again 125 

Fierce War, and faithful Love, 
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. 
In buskined measures move 
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing 

breast. 130 

A voice, as of the cherub-choir. 
Gales from blooming Eden bear; 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
That lost in long futurity expire. 

Fond^ impious man, think'st thou, yon 

sanguine cloud, 135 

Raised by thy breath, has quenched the 

orb of day? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. 
And warms the nations with redoubled 

ray. 
Enough for me: with joy I see 
The different doom our fates assign. 140 
Be thine Despair, and sceptered Care, 
To triumph, and to die, are mine." — 
He spoke, and headlong from the 

mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to 

endless night. 



THE FATAL SISTERS 

AN ODE 
FROM THE NORSE TONGUE 

Now the storm begins to lower, 
(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) 
Iron-sleet of arrowy shower 
Hurtles in the darkened air. 

Glittering lances are the loom. 
Where the dusky warp we strain, 
Weaving many a soldier's doom, 
Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane. 

' foolish. 



IS 



See the griesly texture grow ! 
('Tis of human entrails made,) 
And the weights, that play below. 
Each a gasping warrior's head. 

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore, 
Shoot the trembling cords along. 
Sword, that once a monarch bore. 
Keep the tissue close and strong. 

Mista black, terrific maid, 
Sangrida, and Hilda, see. 
Join the wayward work to aid: 
'Tis the woof of victory. 

Ere the ruddy sun be set. 
Pikes must shiver, javeUns sing. 
Blade with clattering buckler meet. 
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. 

(Weave the crimson web of war.) 
Let us go, and let us fly. 
Where our friends the conflict share, 
Where they triumph, where they die. 



As the paths of fate we tread. 

Wading through the ensanguined field: 30 

Gondula, and Geira, spread 

O'er the youthful king your shield. 



We the reins to slaughter give, 
Ours to kill, and ours to spare: 
Spite of danger he shall live. 
(Weave the crimson web of war.) 



25 



35 



They, whom once the desert-beach 
Pent within its bleak domain, 
Soon their ample sway shall stretch 
O'er the plenty of the plain. 

Low the dauntless earl is laid. 
Gored with many a gaping wound: 
Fate demands a nobler head; 
Soon a king shall bite the ground. 

Long his loss shall Eirin weep, 
Ne'er again his likeness see; 
Long her strains in sorrow steep. 
Strains of immortality! 

Horror covers all the heath. 
Clouds of carnage blot the sun. 
Sisters, weave the web of death; 
Sisters, cease, the work is done. 



40 



4S 



50 



350 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Hail the task, and hail the hands! 
Songs of joy and triumph sing! 
Joy to the victorious bands; 
Triumph to the younger king. 



55 



Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, 
Learn the tenor of our song. 
Scotland, through each winding vale 
Far and wide the notes prolong. 60 

Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: 
Each her thundering falchion wield; 
Each bestride her sable steed. 
Hurry, hurry to the field. 



SKETCH OF HIS OWN CHARACTER 

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to 

importune; 
He had not the method of making a 

fortune ; 
Could love, and could hate, so was thought 

somewhat odd; 
No very great wit, he believed in a God. 
A place or a pension he did not desire, 5 
But left church and state to Charles 

Townshend and Squire. 



LETTERS 

To Mrs. Dorothy Gray 

Lyons, October ij, 1739. 
... It is a fortnight since we set 
out from hence upon a little excursion to 
Geneva. We took the longest road, 
which lies through Savoy, on purpose to 
see a famous monastery, called the Grand 
Chartreuse, and had no reason to think 
our time lost. After having travelled 
seven days very slow (for we did not 
change horses, it being impossible for a 
chaise to go post in these roads) we [10 
arrived at a little village, among the 
mountains of Savoy, called Echelles; 
from thence we proceeded on horses, who 
are used to the way, to the mountain of 
the Chartreuse. It is six miles to the top; 
the road runs winding up it, commonly not 
six feet broad; on one hand is the rock, 
with woods of pine-trees hanging over- 
head; on the other, a monstrous precipice, 
almost perpendicular, at the bottom [20 



of which rolls a torrent, that sometimes 
tumbling among the fragments of stone 
that have fallen from on high, and some- 
times precipitating itself down vast de- 
scents with a noise like thunder, which is 
still made greater by the echo from the 
mountains on each side, concurs to form 
one of the most solemn, the most roman- 
tic, and the most astonishing scenes I 
ever beheld. ... [30 

To Mrs. Dorothy Gray 

Turin, November 7, 1739. 
I am this night arrived here, and have 
just set down to rest me after eight days' 
tiresome journey. For the first three we 
had the same road we before passed 
through to go to Geneva; the fourth we 
turned out of it, and for that day and the 
next travelled rather- among than upon 
the Alps; the way commonly running 
through a deep valley by the side of the 
river Arve, which works itself a pas- [10 
sage, with great difficulty and a mighty 
noise, among vast quantities of rocks, 
that have rolled down from the mountain- 
tops. The winter was so far advanced 
as in great measure to spoil the beauty 
of the prospect; however, there was still 
somewhat fine remaining amidst the 
savageness and horror of the place: the 
sLxth we began to go up several of these 
mountains; and as we were passing [20 
one, met with an odd accident enough: 
Mr. Walpole had a little fat black spaniel, 
that he was very fond of, which he some- 
times used to set down, and let it run by 
the chaise side. We were at that time in 
a very rough road, not two yards broad at 
most; on one side was a great wood of 
pines, and on the other a vast precipice; 
it was noonday, and the sun shone bright, 
when all of a sudden, from the wood- [30 
side (which was as steep upwards as the 
other part was downwards), out rushed a 
great wolf, came close to the head of the 
horses, seized the dog by the throat, and 
rushed up th'e hill again with him in his 
mouth. This was done in less than a 
quarter of a minute; we all saw it, and 
yet the servants had not time to draw 
their pistols, or do anything to save the 
dog. If he had not been there, and [40 
the creature had thought fit to lay hold 



GRAY 



351 



of one of the horses, chaise, and we, and all 
must inevitably have tumbled about fifty 
fathoms perpendicular down the precipice. 
The seventh we came to Lanebourg, the 
last town in Savoy; it lies at the foot of 
the famous Mount Cenis, which is so 
situated as to allow no room for any way 
but over the very top of it. Here the 
chaise was forced to be pulled to [50 
pieces, and the baggage and that to be 
carried by mules. We ourselves were 
wrapped up in our furs, and seated upon 
a sort of matted chair without legs, which 
is carried upon poles in the manner of a 
bier, and so begun to ascend by the help 
of eight men. It was six miles to the top, 
where a plain opens itself about as many 
more in breadth, covered perpetually 
with very deep snow, and in the midst [60 
of that a great lake of unfathomable 
depth, from whence a river takes its rise, 
and tumbles over monstrous rocks quite 
down the other side of the mountain. 
The descent is six miles more, but in- 
finitely more steep than the going up ; and, 
here the men perfectly fly down with you, 
stepping from stone to stone with in- 
credible swiftness in places where none 
but they could go three paces without [70 
falling. The immensity of the precipices, 
the roaring of the river and torrents that 
run into it, the huge crags covered with 
ice and snow, and the clouds below you 
and about you, are objects it is impos- 
sible to conceive without seeing them; 
and though we had heard many strange 
descriptions of the scene, none of them 
at all came up to it. . . . 

To Richard West 

Turin, November 16, 1739. 
... I have not, as yet, anywhere 
met with those grand and simple works 
of Art, that are to amaze one, and whose 
sight one is to be the better for: but those 
of Nature have astonished me beyond 
expression. In our little journey up to the 
Grande Chartreuse, I do not remember to 
have gone ten paces without an exclama- 
tion that there was no restraining. Not 
a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, [10 
but is pregnant with religion and poetry. 
There are certain scenes that would awe 
an atheist into belief, without the help of 



other argument. One need not have a 
very fantastic imagination to see spirits 
there at noonday; you have Death per- 
petually before your eyes, only so far 
removed, as to compose the mind with- 
out frighting it. I am well persuaded St. 
Bruno was a man of no common genius, [20 
to choose such a situation for his retire- 
ment; and perhaps should have been a 
disciple of his, had I been born in his 
time. . . . 

To Horace Walpole 

Cambridge, February 11, 1751. 
As you have brought me into a little 
sort of distress, you must assist me, I 
believe, to get out of it as well as I can. 
Yesterday I had the misfortune of re- 
ceiving a letter from certain gentlemen 
(as their bookseller expresses it) , who have 
taken the Magazine of Magazines into 
their hands. They tell me that an in- 
genious poem, called reflections in a 
Country Church-yard, has been com- [10 
municated to them, which they are print- 
ing forthwith ; that they are informed that 
the excellent author of it is I by name, and 
that they beg not only his indulgence, 
but the honor of his correspondence, etc. 
As I am not at all disposed to be either so 
indulgent, or so correspondent, as they 
desire, I have but one bad way left to 
escape the honor they would inflict upon 
me; and therefore am obliged to desire [20 
you would make Dodsley print it im- 
mediately (which may be done in less 
than a week's time) from your copy, but 
without my name, in what form is most 
convenient to him, but on his best paper 
and character; he must correct the press 
himself, and print it \\dthout any interval 
between the stanzas, because the sense 
is in some places continued beyond them; 
and the title must be, — Elegy, writ- [30 
ten in a Country Church-yard. If he 
would add a line or two to say it came 
into his hands by accident, I should like 
it better. If you behold the Magazine of 
jSIagazines in the light that I do, you will 
not refuse to give yourself this trouble 
on my accoui^t, which you have taken of 
your own accord before now. If Dodsley 
do not do this immediately, he may as 
well let it alone. [40 



352 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



To THE Rev. William Mason 

December IQ, lyjj. 
Dear Mason — Though I very well know 
the bland emollient saponaceous quahties 
both of sack and silver, yet if any great 
man would say to me, "I make you rat- 
catcher to his Majesty, with a salary of 
£300 a year and two butts of the best 
Malaga; and though it has been usual to 
catch a mouse or two, for form's sake, in 
public once a year, yet to you, sir, we will 
not stand upon these things," I can- [10 
not say I should jump at it; nay, if they 
would drop the very name of the office, 
and call me Sinecure to the King's Maj- 
esty, I should still feel a little awkward, 
and think everybody I saw smelt a rat 
about me; but I do not pretend to blame 
any one else that has not the same sensa- 
tions; for my part I would rather be 
Serjeant trumpeter or pinmaker to the 
palace. Nevertheless I interest my- [20 
self a little in the history of it, and rather 
wish somebody may accept it that will 
retrieve the credit of the thing, if it be 
retrievable, or ever had any credit. Rowe 
was, I think, the last man of character 
that had it. As to Settle, whom you 
mention, he belonged to my lord mayor, 
not to the king. Evisden was a person of 
great hopes in his youth, though he at 
last turned out a drunken parson. [30 
Dry den was as disgraceful to the office, 
from his character, as the poorest scribbler 
could have been from his verses. The 
office itself has always humbled the pro- 
fessor hitherto (even in an age when kings 
were somebody), if he were a poor writer 
by making him more conspicuous, and if 
he were a good one by setting him at war 
with the little iry of his own profession, 
for there are poets little enough to [40 
envy even a poet-laureate. . . . 



JAMES MACPHERSON (1736-1796) 
From CATH-LODA 

A Tale of the times of old ! 

Why, thou wanderer unseen! Thou 
bender of the thistle of Lora; why, thou 
breeze of the valley, hast thou left mine 
ear? I hear no distant roar of streams! 



No sound of the harp, from the rock! 
Come, thou huntress of Lutha, Malvina, 
call back his soul to' the bard. I look 
forward to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark, 
billowy bay of U-thorno, where Fingal [10 
descends from ocean, from the roar of 
winds. Few are the heroes of Morven, in 
a land unknown! 

Starno sent a dweller of Loda, to bid 
Fingal to the feast; but the king remem- 
bered the past, and all his rage arose. 
"Nor Gormal's mossy towers, nor Starno, 
shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like 
shadows, over his fiery soul! Do I forget 
that beam of fight, the white-handed [20 
daughter of kings? Go, son of Loda; his 
words are wind to Fingal: wind, that to 
and fro drives the thistle, in autumn's 
dusky vale. Duth-maruno, arm of death! 
Cromma-glas, of iron shields! Struthmor, 
dweller of battle's wing! Cormar, whose 
ships bound on seas, careless as the course 
of a meteor, on dark-rolling clouds! 
Arise around me, children of heroes, in a 
land unknown! Let each look on his [30 
shield, like Trenmor, the ruler of wars." 
****** 

Around the king they rise in wrath. No 
words come forth: they seize their spears. 
Each soul is rolled into itself. At length 
the sudden clang is waked, on all their 
echoing shields. Each takes his hill, by 
night; at intervals, they darkly stand. 
Unequal bursts the hum of songs, between 
the roaring wind! 

Broad over them rose the moon! [40 

In his arms came tall Duth-maruno; 

he from Croma of rocks, stern hunter of 

the boar! In his dark boat he rose on 

waves. 

Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wide- 
bounding over Turthor's stream, that 
sent its sullen roar by night through 
Gormal's misty vale. A moon-beam gfit- 
tered on a rock; in the midst, stood a 
stately form; a form with floating [50 
locks, like Lochlin's white-bosomed maids. 
Unequal are her steps, and short. She 
throws a broken song on wind. At times 
she tosses her white arms: for grief is 
dwelfing in her soul. 



MACPHERSON 



353 



Whence is the stream of years? Whither 
do they roll along? Where have they 
hid, in mist, their many-colored sides? 

I look into the times of old, but they 
seem dim to Ossian's eyes, like reflected [60 
moonbeams on a distant lake. Here 
rise the red beams of war! There, silent, 
dwells a feeble race! They mark no 
years with their deeds, as slow they pass 
along. Dweller between the shields ! thou 
that awakest the failing soul! descend 
from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy 
voices three! Come with that which 
kindles the past: rear the forms of old, 
on their own dark-brown years! [70 



From THE SONGS OF SELMA 

It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the 
hill of storms. The wind is heard in 
the mountain. The torrent pours down 
the rock. No hut receives me from the 
rain; forlorn on the hill of winds! 

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. 
Stars of the night arise! Lead me, some 
light, to the place where my love rests 
from the chase alone! his bow near him, 
unstrung; his dogs panting around [10 
him. But here I must sit alone, by the 
rock of the mossy stream. The stream 
and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the 
voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, 
why the chief of the hill his promise? 
Here is the rock, and here the tree! here 
is the roaring stream ! Thou didst promise 
with night to be here. Ah! whither is 
my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, 
from my father; with thee from my [20 
brother of pride. Our races have long 
been foes; we are not foes, Salgar! 

Cease a Httle while, wind! stream, 
be thou silent a while! let my voice be 
heard around. Let my wanderer hear 
me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here 
is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my 
love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy 
coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. 
The flood is bright in the vale. The [30 
rocks are grey on the steep. I see him 
not on the brow. His dogs come not 
before him, with tidings of his near ap- 
proach. Here I must sit alone. 



From CARTHON 

Ossian's Address to the Sun 

O thou that rollest above, round as the 
shield of my fathers! Whence are thy 
beams, sun! thy everlasting light? 
Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty; 
the stars hide themselves in the sky; the 
moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western 
wave. But thou thyself movest alone: 
who can be a companion of thy course? 
The oaks of the mountains fall : the moun- 
tains themselves decay with years; [10 
the ocean shrinks and grows again: the 
moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou 
art for ever the same; rejoicing in the 
brightness of thy course. When the 
world is dark with tempests; when thun- 
der rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest 
in thy beauty from the clouds, and laugh- 
est at the storm. But to Ossian, thou 
lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams 
no more; whether thy yellow hair [20 
flows on the eastern clouds, or thou 
tremblest at the gates of the west. But 
thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; 
thy years will have an end. Thou shalt 
sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice 
of the morning. Exult then, O sun! in 
the strength of thy youth: Age is dark and 
unlovely; it is like the glimmering light 
of the moon, when it shines through 
broken clouds, and the mist is on the [30 
hills; the blast of the north is on the plain; 
the traveller shrinks in the midst of his 
journey. 

ROBERT FERGUSSON (1750-1774) 

THE DAFT DAYS 

Now mirk December's dowie^ face 
Glowrs owr the rigs^ wi' sour grimace, 
While, thro' his minimum of space, 

The bleer-eyed sun, 
Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace, 5 

His race doth run. 

From naked groves nae birdie sings; 
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings; 
The breeze nae odorous flavor brings 

From Borean cave; 10 

And dA\yning^ Nature droops her wings, 

Wi' visage grave. 

' dreary. - fields. ' pining. 



354 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Mankind but scanty pleasure glean 

Frae snawy hill or barren plain, 

Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train, 15 

Wi' frozen spear, 
Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain, 

And guides^ the weir.- 

Auld Reikie!^ thou'rt the canty"* hole, 

A bield'' for mony a caldrife^ soul, 20 

Wha snugly at thine ingle'' loll, 

Baith warm and couth f 
While round they gar^ the bicker^" roll 

To weet their mouth. 

When merry Yule-day comes, I trow, 25 
You'll scantlins^^ find a hungry mou;^" 
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou 

O' gusty gear,^^ 
And kickshaws, ^^ strangers to our view. 

Sin' fairn-year.^'^ 30 

Ye browster^^ wives! now busk^^ ye bra,^^ 
And fling your sorrows far awa' ; 
Then, come and gie's the tither blaw^*^ 

Of reaming-'' ale, 
Mair precious than the Well of Spa, 35 

Our hearts to heal. 

Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl', 
Amang oursells we'll never quarrel; 
Tho' Discord gie a cankered snarl 

To spoil our glee, 40 

As lang's there's pith-^ into the barrel 

We'll drink and 'gree. 



Fiddlers ! your pins in temper fix. 
And roset-- weel your fiddlesticks, 
But banish vile Italian tricks 

From out your quorum, 
Nor forks wi' pianos mix — 

Gie's Tullochgorum. 



45 



For nought can cheer the heart sae weel 
As can a canty-^ Highland reel; 50 

It even vivifies the heel 

To skip and dance: 
Lifeless is he wha canna feel 

Its influence. 



1 governs. ^ mill-dam. 

^ snug. 5 shelter. 

8 comfortable. 
" scarcely. '^ mouth. 
15 long ago. 18 brewer. 
18 finely. "^ draught. 

21 anything left. 



3 Edinburgh ("Old Sooty"). 

^ freezing. ' fireside. 

' make. '" bowl. 

" savory food. ^* delicacies. 
" dress yourselves. 
'-" foaming. 
'-- rosin. 23 Jolly. 



Let mirth abound; let social cheer 
Invest the dawning of the year; 
Let blithesome innocence appear 

To crown our joy: 
Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer, 

Our bliss destroy. 



55 



60 



And thou, great god of aqua vUcb! 
Wha sways the empire of this city — 
When fou-^ we're sometimes capernoity^^- 

Be thou prepared 
To hedge us frae that black banditti, 65 

The City Guard. 



THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770) 

BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; 

OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES 
BAWDIN 

The feathered songster chaunticleer 
Han-^ wounde hys bugle home, 

And tolde the earlie villager 
The commynge of the morne: 

Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes 5 

Of lyghte eclypse the greie; 
And herde the raven's crokynge throte 

Proclayme the fated dale. 

''Thou'rt righte," quod hee, "for, by the 
Godde 

That syttes enthroned on hyghe! 10 

Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine, 

To-daie shall surelie die." 

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale 
Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; 

" Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie 15 
Hee leaves thys mortall state." 

Sir Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, 
With harte brymm-fulle of woe; 

Hee journeyed to the castle-gate. 

And to Syr Charles dydd goe. 20 

Butt whenne hee came, hys children 
twaine. 

And eke hys lovynge wyfe, 
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore, 

For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. 

" drunk. 25 ill-natured. -^ has. 



CHATTERTON 



355 



"O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone, 
"Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." 26 

"Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr 
Charles, 
"Whatte says the tray tor kynge?" 

"I greeve to telle; before yonne sonne 
Does fromme the welkin flye, 30 

Hee ha the uppon hys honnour sworne, 
Thatt thou shalt sureHe die." 

"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr 
Charles ; 

"Of thatte I'm not affearde; 
Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? 35 

Thanke Jesu, I'm prepared; 

" Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, 

I'de sooner die to-daie 
Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are. 

Though I shoulde lyve for aie." 40 

Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out, 

To telle the maior straite 
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness 

For goode Syr Charles's fate. 

Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the 
kynge, 45 

And felle down onne hys knee; 
"I'm come," quod hee, "unto your grace 

To move your clemencye." 

Thenne quod the kynge, "Youre tale 
speke out, 

You have been much oure friende; 50 
Whatever youre request may bee. 

Wee wylle to ytte attende." 

"My nobile leige! alle my request, 

Ys for a nobile knyghte, 
Who, though may hap hee has donne 
wronge, 55 

Hee though te ytte^ stylle was ryghte: 

"He has a spouse and children twaine, 

Alle rewyned- are for aie; 
Yff that you are resolved to lett 

Charles Bawdin die to-dai." 60 

"Speke not of such a traytour vile," 

The kynge ynne furie sayde; 
"Before the evening starre doth sheene,'^ 

Bawdin shall loose hys hedde: 

* it. ' ruined. ^ shine. 



"Justice does loudlie for hym calle, 65 
And hee shalle have hys meede: 

Speke, Maister Canynge! Whatte thynge 
else 
Att present doe you neede?" 

"My nobile leige!" goode Canynge sayde, 
"Leave justice to our Godde, ' 70 

And laye the yronne rule asyde; 
Be thyne the olyve rodde, 

"Was Godde to serche our hertes and 
reines, 

The best were synners grete; 
Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne, 75 

Ynne alle thys mortall state. 

"Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, 
'Twylle faste'* thye crowne fulle sure; 

From race to race thye familie 
Alle sov'reigns shall endure: 80 

" But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou 

Beginne thy infante reigne, 
Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes 
brows 

Wylle never long remayne." 

"Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile 85 
Has scorned my power and mee; 

Howe canst thou then for such a manne 
Entreate my clemencye?" 

"Mie nobile leige! the trulie brave 
Wylle val'rous actions prize; 90 

Respect a brave and nobile mynde. 
Although ynne enemies." 

" Canynge, awaie ! By Godde ynne Heav'n 
Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve, 

I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade 95 

Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. 

"Bie Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne 
Heav'n, 

Thys sunne shall be hys laste," 
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, 

A.nd from the presence paste.'' 100 

With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge 

grief, 
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe, 
And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole. 
And teares beganne to tlowe. 

* secure. ' passed. 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr 
Charles; 105 

"Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; 
Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate 

Of all wee mortall menne. 

"Saye why, my friende, thie honest soul 
Runns overr att thyne eye; no 

Is ytte for my most welcome doome 
Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?" 

Quod godlie Canynge, ''I doe weepe, 
Thatt thou soe soone must dye. 

And leave thy sonnes and helpless 
wyfe; 115 

'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye." 

"Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye 
From godhe fountaines sprynge; 

Dethe I despise, and alle the power 

Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. 120 

"Whan through the tyrant's welcom 
means 

I shall resigne my lyfe. 
The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde 

For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe. 

" Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, 125 

Thys was appointed mee; 
Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge 

What Godde ordeynes to bee? 

"Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode. 
Whan thousands dyed arounde; 130 

Whan smokynge streemes of crimson 
bloode 
Imbrewed the fattened ground : 

"Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte, 

That cutte the airie waie, 
Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, 

And close myne eyes for aie? 136 

"And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, 
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde? 

Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere. 
Bee alle the manne displayed. 140 

"Ah! goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, 
And guarde thee and thye sonne, 

Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott, 
Why thenne hys wylle bee donne. 



"My honest friende, my faulte has beene 
To serve Godde and mye prynce; 146 

And thatt I no tyme-server am, 
My dethe wylle soone convynce. 



"Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, 

Of parents of grete note; 
•My fadre dydd a nobile armes 

Emblazon onne hys cote: 



150 



"I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone 

Where soone I hope to goe; 
Where wee for ever shall bee blest, 155 

From oute the reech of woe. 

"Hee taughte mee justice and the laws 

Wyth pitie to unite; 
And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe 

The wrong cause fromm the ryghte : 160 

"Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande 

To feede the hungrie poore, 
Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie 

The hungrie fromme my doore: 

" And none can saye butt alle mye lyfe 165 

I have hys wordy es kept; 
And summed the actyonns of the dale 

Eche nyghte before I slept. 



"I have a spouse, goe aske of her 
Yff I defyled her bedde? 

I have a kynge, and none can laie 
Black treason onne my hedde. 



170 



"Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, 
Fromm fieshe I dydd refrayne: 

Whie should I thenne appeare dismayed 
To leave thys worlde of payne? 1 76 

"Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce, 

I shall ne see thye dethe; 
Moste willingHe ynne thye just cause 

Doe I resign my brethe. 180 

"Oh, fickle people! rew3med londe! 

Thou wylt kenne^ peace ne moe;- 
Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, 

Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. 

" Saie, were ye tyred of godlie peace, 185 

And godlie Henrie's reigne, 
Thatt you dyd choppe^ youre easie dales 

For those of bloude and peyne? 

1 know. 2 more. ^ exchange. 



CHATTERTON 



357 



"Whatte though I onne a sledde be 
drawne, 

And mangled by a hynde/ 190 

I doe defye the traytor's pow'r, 

Hee can ne harm my mynd; 

"Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, 
Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, 

And ne ryche monument of brasse 195 

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; 

" Yett ynne the holie booke above, 
Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, 

There \vythe the servants of the Lord 
Mye name shall lyve for aie. 200 

"Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne 

I leave thys mortall lyfe: 
Farewell, vayne world, and alle that's 
deare, 

Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe! 

" Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes, 205 

As e'er the moneth of Male; 
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, 

Wyth my dere wyfe to stale." 

Quod Canynge, '"Tys a goodlie thynge 
To bee prepared to die; 210 

And from thys world of peyne and grefe 
To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie." 

And nowe the belle began to tolle. 

And claryonnes to sound; 
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete 215 

A-prancing orme the grounde: 

And just before the officers 
His lovynge wyfe came ynne, 

Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe, 

Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. 220 

"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, 

Ynne quiet lett mee die; 
Praie Godd thatt ev'ry Christian soule 

Maye looke onne dethe as I. 

"Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers? 

Theye washe my soule awaie, 226 

And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, 

Wyth thee, sweete dame, to stale. 

" 'Tys butt a joumie I shalle goe 

Untoe the lande of blysse: 230 

Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love. 
Receive thys holie kysse." 

1 slave. 



Thenne Florence, fault 'ring ynne her saie, 
Tremblynge these wordy es spoke, 

"Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! 235 
Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke: 

"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou 
goe, 

Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe? 
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thy necke, 

Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe." 240 

And nowe the officers came ynne 
To brynge Syr Charles awaie, 

Whoe turnedd toe hys loyvnge wyfe, 
And thus to her dydd saie: 



"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; 245 

Truste thou ynne Godde above. 

And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde, 
And ynne theyre hertes hym love: 

"Teache them to runne the nobile race 
Thatt I theyre fader runne; 250 

Florence! shou'd dethe thee take — adieu! 
Yee officers, leade onne." 

Thenne Florence raved as anie madde. 

And dydd her tresses tere; 
"Oh, stale, mye husbande, lorde, and 
lyfe!" 255 

Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. 

'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravyngs loude, 

Shee fellen- onne the flore; 
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte. 

And marched fromm oute the dore. 260 

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, 
Wythe lookes full brave and swete; 

Lookes thatt enshone^ ne more concern 
Thanne anie ynne the strete. 

Before hym went the council-menne, 265 
Ynne scarlett robes and golde. 

And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne, 
Muche glorious to beholde: 

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next 
Appeared to the syghte, 270 

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes, 
Of godlie monkysh plyghte: 

2 fell. ' displayed. 



358 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume 
Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; 

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles 
came, 275 

Who tuned the strunge^ bataunt. 

Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came; 

Echone the bowe dydd bende, 
From rescue of Kynge Henrie's friends 

Syr Charles forr to defend. 280 

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, 
Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde. 

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges 
white, 
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde: 

Behynde hym five-and-twenty moe 285 
Of archers stronge and stoute, 

Wyth bended bowe echone yxme hande, 
Marched ynne goodlie route; 

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, 
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt; 290 

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles 
came, 
Who tuned the strunge bataunt : 

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, 
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't; 

And theyre attendynge menne echone, 295 
Lyke Easterne princes trickt: 

And after them, a multitude 

Of citizenns dydd thronge; 
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, 

As hee dydd passe alonge. 300 

And whenne hee came to the hyghe 
crosse, 
Syr Charles dydd turne and sale, 
"0 Thou, thatt savest manne fromme 
synne, 
Washe mye soule clean thys dale! " 

Att the grete mynster^ wyndowe sat 305 
The kynge ynne myckle^ state, 

To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge 
To hys most welcom fate. 

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, 
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, 310 

' stringed. ^ cathedral. ^ great. 



The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande 
uppe. 
And thus hys words declare: 

"Thou seest me, Edwarde! traytour vile! 

Exposed to infamie; 
Butt bee assured, disloyall manne! 315 

I'm greater nowe thanne thee. 

"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude. 
Thou wearest nowe a crowne; 

And hast appoynted mee to die, 

By power nott thyne owne. 320 

"Thou thynkest I shall die to-daie; 

I have beene dede 'till nowe, 
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne 

For aie uponne my browe: 

"Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few 
yeares, 325 

Shalt rule thys fickle lande, 
To lett them knowe ho we wyde the rule 

'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande: 

"Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave! 

Shall falle onne thye owne hedde" — 330 
Fromm out of hearing of the kynge 

Departed thenne the sledde. 

Kynge Edwarde's soule rushed to hys face, 

Hee turned hys hedde awaie. 
And to hys broder Gloucester 335 

Hee thus dydd speke and sale: 

"To hym that soe much dreaded dethe 

Ne ghastlie terrors brynge, 
Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe, 

Hee's greater thanne a kynge!" 340 

"Soe let hym die!" Duke Richard sayde; 

"And maye echone oure foes 
Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe 

And feede the carry on crowes." 

And nowe the horses gentlie drewe 345 
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle; 

The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne. 
His pretious bloude to spylle. 

Syrr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe, 
As uppe a gilded carre 350 

Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs 
Gayned ynne the bloudie warre: 



CHATTERTON 



359 



And to the people hee dyd saie, 
"Beholde you see mee dye, 

For servynge loyally mye kynge, 
Mye kynge most rightfullie. 



355 



"As longe as Edwarde rules thys land, 

Ne quiet you wylle knowe: 
Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee 
slayne, 

And brookes wythe bloude shall flowe. 

"You leave youre goode and lawfulle 
kynge, _ 361 

Whenne ynne adversitye; 
Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, 

And for the true cause dye." 

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys 
knees, 365 

A pray'r to Godde dyd make, 
Beseechjmge hym unto hymselfe 

Hys partynge soule to take. 

Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys 
hedde 

Most seemlie onne the blocke; 370 

Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once 

The able heddes-manne stroke: 

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe. 
And rounde the scafi"olde twyne; 

And teares, enow to washe 't awaie, 375 
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne. 

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre 

Ynnto foure parties cutte; 
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, 

Uponne a pole was putte. 380 

One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph- 

hyUe, 
One onne the mynster-tower. 
And one from off the castle-gate 
The crowen dydd devoure; 

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode 
gate, 385 

A dreery spectacle; 
Hys hedde was placed onne the hyghe 
crosse, 
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile. 

Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate: 
Godde prosper longe oure kynge, 390 

And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin-'s. 
soule, 
Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge! 



MYNSTRELLES SONGE 

From ^lla: A Tragycal Enterlude 

O, synge untoe mie roundelaie! 

O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee! 

Daunce ne moe atte hallie dale, 

Lycke a reynynge^ ryver bee; 

Mie love ys dedde, 5 

Gon to hys death-bedde, 
Al under the wyllowe tree. 

Blacke hys cryne^ as the wyntere nyghte, 
Whyte hys rode'^ as the sommer snowe, 
Rodde'* hys face as the morynynge lyghte, 
Cale*^ he lyes ynne the grave belowe; 11 
Mie love ys dedde, 
Gon to hys death-bedde, 
Al under the wyllowe tree. 

Swote® hys tyngue as the throstles note, 15 
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne 

bee, 
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, 
O ! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree : 
Mie love ys dedde, 
Gonne to hys death-bedde, 20 

AUe underre the wyllowe tree. 

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge. 

In the briered delle belowe; 

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, 

To the nyghte-mares as heie'' goe; 25 

Mie love ys dedde, 
Gonne to hys death-bedde, 
Al under the wyllowe tree. 

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; 
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; 30 
Whyterre yanne^ the mornynge skie, 
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; 
Mie love ys dedde, 
Gon to hys death-bedde, 
Al under the wyllowe tree. 35 

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, 

Schalle the baren fleurs be layde. 

Nee one hallie Seyncte to save 

Al the celness^ of a mayde. 

Mie love ys dedde, 40 

Gonne to hys death-bedde, 
Alle under the wyllowe tree. 



1 running. 
<■ sweet. 



- hair. 
' they. 



3 skin. 
s than. 



* ruddy. 
' coldness. 



5 cold. 



36o 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Wythe mie hondes I 'lie dente^ the brieres 

Rounde his hallie corse to gre,^ 

Ouphante^ fairie, lyghte youre fyres, 45 

Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee. 
Mie love ys dedde, 
Gon to hys death-bedde, 
A\ under the wyllowe tree. 

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, 
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie: 51 

Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, 
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. 
Mie love ys dedde, 
Gon to hys death-bedde, 55 

Al mider the wyllowe tree. 

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,^ 
Bere mee to yer leathalle" tyde. 
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. — 
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. 60 



WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800) 

WALKING WITH GOD. Gen. v. 24 

From OLNEY HYMNS 

Oh ! for a closer walk with God, 
A calm and heavenly frame; 
A light to shine upon the road 
That leads me to the Lamb ! 

Where is the blessedness I knew 5 

When first I saw the Lord? 
Where is the soul-refreshing view 
Of Jesus and his word? 

What peaceful hours I once enjoyed ! 
How sweet their memory still! 10 

But they have left an aching void 
The world can never fill. 

Return, holy Dove, return, 

Sweet messenger of rest! 

I hate the sins that made thee mourn 15 

And drove thee from my breast. 

The dearest idol I have known, 
Whate'er that idol be, 
Help me to tear it from thy throne, 
And worship only thee. 20 



1 fasten. 
■> reeds. 



2 grow. 



3 elfin. 
5 deadly. 



So shall my walk be close with God, 
Calm and serene my frame; 
So purer light shall mark the road 
That leads me to the Lamb. 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL 
GEORGE 

Toll for the brave! 

The brave that are no more! 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 5 

Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds. 

And she was overset; 10 

Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 
His last sea-fight is fought; 15 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle; 

No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak; 

She ran upon no rock. 20 

His sword was in its sheath; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 25 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tears that England owes. . 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again 30 

Full charged with England's thunder. 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 

His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 35 

Shall plough the wave no more. 



COWPER 



361 



THE TASK Vf 

From BOOK I 

There often wanders one, whom better 
days 
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed 
With lace, and hat with splendid riband 
bound. 536 

A serving-maid was she, and fell in love 
With one who left her, went to sea, and 

died. 
Her fancy followed him through foaming 

waves 
To distant shores, and she would sit and 
weep 540 

At what a sailor suffers; fancy too. 
Delusive most where warmest wishes are. 
Would oft anticipate his glad return. 
And dream of transports she was not to 

know. 
She heard the doleful tidings of his death, 
And never smiled again. And now she 
roams 546 

The dreary waste; there spends the live- 
long day. 
And there, unless when charity forbids. 
The livelong night. A tattered apron 

hides, 
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a 
gown _ .550 

More tattered still; and both but ill con- 
ceal 
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. 
She begs an idle pin of all she meets, 
And hoards them in her sleeve; but need- 
ful food. 
Though pressed with hunger oft, or come- 
lier clothes, 555 

Though pinched with cold, asks never. — 
Kate is crazed. 
I see a column of slow-rising smoke 
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. 
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat 
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 
Between two poles upon a stick transverse. 
Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, 
Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined 
From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring 

race! 
They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 565 
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves 

unquenched 
The spark of life. The sportive wind 
blows wide 



Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny 

skin. 
The vellum of the pedigree they claim. 
Great skill have they in palmistry, and 
more 570 

To conjure clean away the gold they touch, 
Conveying worthless dross into its place; 
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they 

steal. 
Strange! that a creature rational, and cast 
In human mould, should brutalize by 
choice 575 

His nature, and, though capable of arts 
By which the world might profit and him- 
self. 
Self-banished from society, prefer 
Such squalid sloth to honorable toil! 
Yet even these, though, feigning sickness 
oft, 580 

They swathe the forehead, drag the limp- 
ing limb, 
And vex their flesh with artificial sores, 
Can change their whine into a mirthful 

note 
When safe occasion offers; and with dance, 
And music of the bladder and the bag, 585 
Beguile their woes, and make the woods 

resound. 
Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy 
The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; 
And breathing wholesome air, and wander- 
ing much, 
Need other physic none to heal the effects 
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. 591 



From BOOK II 

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness. 
Some boundless contiguity of shade. 
Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful or successful war. 
Might never reach me morel My ear is 
/ pained, s 

(My soul is sick with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is 

filled. 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 
It does not feel for man; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 10 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not colored like his own, and, haWng 

power 



362 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy 

cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful 

prey. _ 15 

Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
Make enemies of nations who had else 
Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes^ his brother, and de- 
stroys; 20 
And worse than all, and most to be de- 
plored, 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his 

sweat 
With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding 

heart. 
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 25 
Then what is man? And what man 

seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not 

blush 
And hang his head, to think himself a 

man? 
I would not have a slave to till my ground. 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 30 
And tremble when I wake, for all the 

wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever 

earned. 
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave 35 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on 

him. 
We have no slaves at home: then why 

abroad? 
And they themselves once ferried o'er the 

wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their 

lungs 40 

Receive our air, that moment they are 

free; 
They touch our country, and their shackles 

fall. 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it 

then. 
And let it circulate through every vein 45 
Of all your empire; that where Britain's 

power 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 

• vows to destruction. 



From BOOK V 

There shame to manhood, and opprobri- 
ous more 
To France than all her losses and defeats 
Old or of later date, by sea or land, 381 
Her house of bondage worse than that of 

old 
Which God avenged on Pharaoh — the 

Bastile! 
Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken 

hearts. 
Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, 385 
That monarchs have supplied from age to 

age 
With music such as suits their sovereign 

ears — 
The sighs and groans of miserable men. 
There's not an English heart that would 

not leap 
To hear that ye were fallen at last, to 

know 390 

That even our enemies, so oft employed 
In forging chains for us, themselves were 

free : 
For he that values liberty, confines 
His zeal for her predominance within 
No narrow bounds; her cause engages 

him _ 395 

Wherever pleaded; 'tis the cause of man. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY 
MOTHER'S PICTURE 

Oh that those lips had language! Life 

has passed 
With me but roughly since I heard thee 

last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet 

smile I see. 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears 

away!" 6 

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalise. 
The art that bafBes Time's tyrannic 

claim 
To quench it) here shines on me still the 

same. 10 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here! 

Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 

Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 



COWPER 



3^3 



I will obey, not willingly alone, 15 

But gladly, as the precept were her own: 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 20 
My mother! when I learned that thou 

wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I 

shed? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
Wretch even then, life's journey just 

begun? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, 

a kiss: 25 

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile! It answers — 

•Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
And turning from my nursery window, 

drew 30 

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 
But was it such? — It was. — Where thou 

art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful 

shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no 

more! 35 

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my 

concern. 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wished I long believed. 
And, disappointed still, was still de- 
ceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled, 40 

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and 

went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er for- 
got. 45 
Where once we dwelt our name is 

heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery 

floor; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and 

wrapped 50 

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet 

capped, 



'Tis now become a history little known, 
That once we called the pastoral house 

our own. 
Short-lived possession! but the record fair 
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness 
there, 55 

Still outlives many a storm that has ef- 
faced 
A thousand other themes less deeply 

traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 
That thou mightst know me safe and 

warmly laid; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my hom^. 
The biscuit, or confectionary plum; 61 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks be- 
stowed 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 

glowed; 
All this, and more endearing still than 

all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no 
fall, 65 

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and 

brakes 
That humor interposed too often makes; 
All this still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
Not scorned in heaven, though little 
noticed here. 
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore 
the hours. 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued 
flowers, 75 

The violet, the pink, and jassamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier, than myself the 

while. 
Would softly speak, and stroke my head 

and smile). 
Could those few pleasant days again 
appear, 80 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish 

them here? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear de- 
light 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 



364 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's 

coast 88 

(The storms all weathered and the ocean 

crossed) 
Shoots into port at some well-havened 

isle, 90 

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons 

smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods that 

show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers 

gay; _ 95 

So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached 

the shore, 
"Where tempests never beat nor billows 

roar." 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous 

tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy 

side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always dis- 
tressed — 1 01 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest 

tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and 

compass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting 

force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous 

course. 105 

Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, 

and he! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may 

to me. 
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned and rulers of the 

earth; 
But higher far my proud pretensions 

rise — no 

The son of parents passed into the skies! 
And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has 

run 
His wonted course, yet what I wished is 

done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in 

vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er 

again; _ 115 

To have renewed the joys that once were 

mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine: 



And, while the wings of Fancy still are 

free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe 

me left. 121 



SONNET TO MRS. UN WIN 

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, 
Such aid from heaven as some have 

feigned they drew. 

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, 

new. 

And undebased by praise of meaner things! 

That, ere through age or woe I shed my 

wings, _ 5 

I may record thy worth, with honor 

due. 

In verse as musical as thou art true. 

Verse that immortalizes whom it sings. 

But thou hast little need. There is a book. 

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly 

light, 10 

On which the eyes of God not rarely look; 

A chronicle of actions just and bright; 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, 

shine, 
And since thou ownest that praise, I spare 
thee mine. 



TO MARY 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past, 
Since first our sky was overcast; 
Ah, would that this might be the last! 
My Mary! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 5 

I see thee daily weaker grow; 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
My Mary! 

Thy needles, once a shining store. 
For my sake restless heretofore, 10 

Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
My Mary! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still. 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 15 
My Mary! 



COWPER 



3^S 



But well thou playedst the housewife's 

part, 
And all thy threads with magic art 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 
My Mary! 20 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language uttered in a dream ; 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 
My Mary! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 25 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 
My Mary! 

For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see? 30 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 
My Mary! 

Partakers of thy sad decline. 
Thy hands their little force resign. 
Yet, gently pressed, press gently mine, 35 
My Mary! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
That now at every step thou movest 
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, 

My Mary! 40 

And still to love, though pressed with ill. 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still. 

My Mary! 

But ah! by constant heed I know, 45 

How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. 
My Mary! 

And should my future lot be cast 

With much resemblance of the past, 50 

Thy worn-out heart will break at last. 

My Mary! 

THE CASTAWAY 

Obscurest night involved the sky, 
The Atlantic billows roared, 

When such a destined wretch as I, 
Washed headlong from on board, 

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 5 

His floating home forever left. 



No braver chief could Albion boast 
Than he with whom he went, 

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast 

With warmer wishes sent. 10 

He loved them both, but both in vain, 

Nor him beheld, nor her again. 

Not long beneath the whelming brine. 

Expert to swim, he lay; 
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 15 

Or courage die away; 
But waged with death a lasting strife, 
Supported by despair of life. 

He shouted: nor his friends had failed 
To check the vessel's course, 20 

But so the furious blast prevailed. 
That, pitiless perforce. 

They left their outcast mate behind, 

And scudded still before the wind. 

Some succor yet they could afford ; 25 

And such as storms allow. 
The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 

Delayed not to bestow. 
But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, 
Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 30 

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he ■• 
Their haste himself condemn. 

Aware that flight, in such a sea, 
Alone could rescue them; 

Yet bitter felt it still to die 35 

Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 

He long survives, who lives an hour 

In ocean, self-upheld; 
And so long he, with unspent power, 

His destiny repelled; 40 

And ever, as the minutes flew. 
Entreated help, or cried "Adieu!" 

At length, his transient respite past, 

His comrades, who before 
Had heard his voice in every blast, 45 

Could catch the sound no more: 
For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
The stifling wave, and then he sank. 

No poet wept him ; but the page 

Of narrative sincere, 50 

That tells his name, his worth, his age. 
Is wet with Anson's tear: 

And tears by bards or heroes shed 

Alike immortalize the dead. 



366 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



I therefore purpose not, or dream, 

Descanting on his fate. 
To give the melancholy theme 

A more enduring date: 
But misery still delights to trace 
Its semblance in another's case. 



55 



60 



No voice divine the storm allayed, 

No light propitious shone, 
When, snatched from all effectual aid. 

We perished, each alone: 
But I beneath a rougher sea, 65 

And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. 

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) 
From LINES TO JOHN LAPRAIK 



I am nae poet, in a sense. 

But just a rhymer like by chance. 

An' hae to learning nae pretence; 

Yet what the matter? 
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 



50 



55 



Your critic- folk may cock their nose, 
And say, "How can you e'er propose. 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 

To mak a sang? " 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 60 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools? 
If honest Nature made you fools. 

What sairs^ your grammars? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 65 

Or knappin-hammers.^ 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes^ 
Confuse their brains in college classes! 
They gang in stirks^ and come out asses. 

Plain truth to speak; 70 

An' syne^ they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek! 

Gie me ae^ spark o' Nature's fire, 

That's a' the learning I desire; 

Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub'^ an' mire 75 

At pleugh or cart, 
My Muse, tho' hamely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 

^ idiots. 
6 one. 



1 serve. 2 sledge-hammers. 
6 afterwards. 



' oxen. 
' puddle. 



THE HOLY FAIR 

Upon a simmer^ Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn 

An' snuff the caller^ air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs 5 

Wi' glorious light was glintin. 
The hares were hirplin^*^ down the furs,^^ 

The lav'rocks^"' they were chantin 
Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowered^^ abroad 10 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three hizzies,^^ early at the road, 

Cam skelpin^^ up the way. 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart^^ lining; 15 

The third, that gaed a wee a-back. 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appeared like sisters twin 

In feature, form, an' claes;^'^ 20 

Their visage withered, lang an' thin. 

An' sour as onie slaes.^^ 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp,^^ 

As light as onie lambie. 
An' wi' a curchie^^ low did stoop, 25 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonie face, 30 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak. 

An' taks me by the han's, 
"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feck^^ 

Of a' the Ten Comman's 35 

A screed"" some day. 

"My name is Fun — your cronie dear. 

The nearest friend ye hae; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 40 

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin -p 
Gin"'* ye'll go there, yon runkled^^ pair. 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day." 45 



8 summer. ' fresh. 
12 larks. 13 stared, 

's grey. ''clothes. 

19 hop-step-and-jump. 
22 rip. '-3 larking. 



11 hopping. 11 furrows. 

i< young women, i* hurrying. 
18 sloes. 

-" courtesy. 21 majority. 

24 if. 25 wrinkled. 



BURNS 



36: 



Quoth I, " Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't: 

I'll get my Sunday's sark^ on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time," 50 

An' soon I made me ready; 
For roads were clad frae side to side 

Wi' monie a wearie body, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash^ in ridin graith"* 55 

Gaed hoddin^ by their cotters, 
There swankies^ young in braw^ braid- 
claith 

Are springin owre the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin^ barefit, thrang,^ 

In silks an' scarlets glitter, 60 

Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang,^° 

An' farls^^ baked wi' butter, 

Fu' crump^^ that day. 



When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show: 

On every side they're gath'rin, 
Some carryin dails,^^ some chairs 
stools, 

An' some are busy bleth'rin^* 

Right loud that day. 



Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes; 
Ane curses feet that fyled'^ his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays: 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, ^^ 

Wi' screwed-up, grace-proud faces; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

happy is that man an' blest! 

(Nae wonder that it pride him!) 
Whase ain dear lass that he likes best, 

Comes chnkin down beside him! 
Wi' arm reposed on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him; 



65 



an 

70 



90 



95 



' shirt. - porridge-time. ^ shrewd. ■• attire. 

» jogRing. « lusty chaps. ' fine. ^ running. 

'busy. '" large slice. "cakes. '-crisp, 

'^planks. "gabbling. '^ soiled. '« sample. 



Which by degrees slips round her neck, 
An's loof^'' upon her bosom, 
Unkend that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 100 

Is silent expectation; 
For Moodie speels^^ the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie,^^ as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 105 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face 

To's ain het^'' hame had sent him 
Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin an' wi' thumpin! no 

Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin! 
His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, 

His eldritch^^ squeel and gestures. 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 115 

Like cantharidian plaisters. 
On sic a day! 

But hark! the tent has changed its voice: 

There's peace and rest nae langer; 
For a' the real judges rise, 120 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 125 

A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral powers and reason? 
His English style an' gesture fine 

Are a' clean out o' season. 130 

Like Socrates or Antonine 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 135 

In guid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poisoned nostrum; 

For Peebles, frae the water-fit, "-' 
Ascends the holy rostrum: 

See, up he's got the word o' God 140 

An' meek an' mim"-^ has viewed it. 



"hand. 

■-' unearthly. 



'8 ascends. '» the devil 

95 -:..~^'s tnouth. -^ primly. 



• river': 



-0 hot. 



368 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 
An's aff, an' up the Cowgate 
Fast, fast that day. 

Wee Miller niest^ the guard relieves, 145 

An' orthodoxy raibles,^ 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But faith! the birkie^ wants a manse. 

So cannilie^ he hums them; 150 

Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafiiins-wise^ o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

Now butt an' ben" the change-house^ fills 

Wi' yill-caup^ commentators: 155 

Here's cryin out for bakes^ an gills, 

An' there the pint-stowp^" clatters; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end 160 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze me^^ on drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college: 
It kindles wit, it waukens lear,^^ 165 

It pangs^^ us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky-gill or penny-wheep,^^ 

Or onie stronger potion. 
It never fails, on drinkin deep. 

To kittle^^ up our notion 170 

By night or day. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body. 
Sit round the table weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 17s 

On this ane's dress an' that ane's leuk 

They're makin observations; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk,^^ 

An' formin assignations 

To meet some day. 180 

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts. 

Till a' the hills are rairin,^^ 
An' echoes back return the shouts — 

Black Russell is na spairin. 
His piercin words, like Highlan' swords, 185 

Divide the joints an' marrow; 

lext. - babbles. ' fellow. * cunningly. ' partly. 
.11 through the house. ' tavern, 

.le-cup. s cakes. '"pint-mug. i' good luck to! 
earning. i' packs. '■• small-beer. i^ tickle. 



' next 
6 all tl..„ 
8 ale-cup. 
12 learning 
'^ corner 



190 



His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell. 
Our vera "sauls does harrow" 
Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit. 

Filled fou o' lowin^^ brunstane,^^ 
Whase ragin flame an' scorchin heat 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane I^" 
The half-asleep start up wi' fear 

An' think they hear it roarin, 195 

When presently it does appear 

'Twas but some neebor snorin, 
Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 200 

An' how they crouded to the yill,^^ 

When they were a' dismist; 
How drink gaed round in cogs^- and caups^^ 

Amang the furms^^ an' benches: 
An' cheese and bread frae women's laps 205 

Was dealt about in lunches 

An' dawds^^ that day. 

In comes a gawsie,^® gash^'^ guidwife 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne^^ draws her kebbuck"^ an' her knife; 

The lasses they are shyer: 211 

The auld guidmen about the grace 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

And gi'es them't,^^ like a tether, 215 
Fu' lang that day. 

Waesucks!^^ for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace. 

Or melvie^^ his braw clai thing! 220 

O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel 

How bonie lads ye wanted. 
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heeF^ 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day! 225 

Now CHnkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,^^ 

Begins to jow^^ an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame the best they dow,^*" 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps^'^ the billies^^ halt a blink, 230 

Till lasses strip their shoon: 



" roaring. 



18 flaming. i' brimstone. 


20 whinstone. 


2' ale. 


22 wooden bowls. 




23 cups. 






"•• wooden seats. 




25 pieces. 




26 jolly. 


2' clever. 




28 then. 




29 cheese 


3° gives it to them. 




31 alas. 




32 soil. 


33 cheese-rind. 




3^ rope. 




35 swing. 


36 can. 37 gaps in 


the hedge. 


38 young 


fellow 


s. 



BURNS 



369 



Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 
They're a' in famous tune 

For crack^ that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 235 

O' sinners and o' lasses! 
Their hearts o' stane,^ gin^ night, are gane 

As saft as onie flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine. 

There's some are fou o' brandy; 240 
An' monie jobs that day begin. 

May end in houghmagandie^ 
Some ither day. 

TO A MOUSE 

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH 
THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 

Wee, sleekit,-' cowrin, tim'rous beastie. 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty 

Wi' bickerin^ brattle F 
I wad be laith^ to rin an' chase thee 5 

Wi' murdering pattleP 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union. 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 10 

At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

An' fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles,^° but thou may thieve: 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun^^ 

live! 
A daimen^^ icker^^ in a thrave^^ 15 

'S a sma' request; 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,^^ 

An' never miss 't! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 

Its silly wa's the -win's are strewin! 20 

An' naething, now, to big^^ a new ane, 

0' foggage^" green! 
An' bleak December's ^\inds ensuin 

Baith snell^^ an' keen! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 25 
An' weary winter comin fast. 



An' cozie here, beneath the blast 
Thou thought to dwell, 

Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 
Out thro' thy cell. 



30 



> talk. 2 stone. 
<■ hurrj-ing. 
' plough-staff. 
'- occasional. 
" rest. '6 build. 



' bv. 'disgrace. ' soft, sleek. 

"clatter. Moth, 

'"sometimes. "must. 

■' ear. '* twenty-four sheaves. 

" coarse grass. " bitter. 



That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! 
Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble, 

But^^ house or hald. 
To thole^^ the winter's sleety dribble 35 

An' cranreuch^^ cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane^^ 

In proving foresight may be vain: 

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gley,"^ 40 

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! 

The present only toucheth thee: 

But, och! I backward cast my ee 45 

On prospects drear! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear! 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH 
THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 

Thou's met me in an evil hour; 

For I maun"^ crush amang the stoure-^ 

Thy slender stem: 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 5 

Thou bonie gem. 

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonie lark, companion meet. 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet 

Wi' spreckled breast, 10 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 

Upon thy early, humble birth; 

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 15 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce reared above the parent-earth 

Thy tender form. 



" without. 
2' amiss. 



20 endure. 



" hoar-frost. 
-* must. 



" alone. 
" dust. 



370 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



The flaunting flowers our gardens yield 
High sheltering woods an' wa's^ maun 
shield: 20 

But thou, beneath the random bield^ 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie^ stibble-field 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25 

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 30 

Such is the fate of artless maid. 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betrayed 

And guileless trust; 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 35 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 40 

Till billows rage and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has 

striv'n. 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 45 

To misery's brink; 
Till, wrenched of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He ruined sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date; 50 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight 

Shall be thy doom. 

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, 
ESQ. 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

— Gray. 



' walls. 



2 protection. 



'dry. 



My loved, my honored, much respected 

friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays; 

With honest pride, I scorn each selfish 

end: 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem 

and praise. 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish 
lays, 5 

The lowly train in life's sequestered 
scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guile- 
less ways; 
What Aiken in a cottage would have 
been; 
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 
there, I ween! 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry 

sugh,^ 10 

The short'ning winter day is near a 

close ; 

The miry beasts retreating frae the 

pleugh, , 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their 

repose; 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor 
goes,— 
This night his weekly moil is at an 
end, — IS 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and 
his hoes. 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to 
spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged 

tree; 20 

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, 

stacher^ through 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin^ 

noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle,'' blinkin bonilie. 
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty 
wifie's smile, 
The Hsping infant prattling on his 
knee, 25 

Does a' his weary kiaugh^ and care 
beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' 
his toil. 

* moan. ' stagger. ^ fluttering. ' fire-place. ^ anxiety. 



BURNS 



371 



Belyve/ the elder bairns come drapping 
in, 
At service out amang the farmers 
roun' ; 
Some ca^ the pleugh, some herd, some 
tentie^ rin 30 

A cannie errand to a neebor toun: 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, 
woman-grown. 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkhng in her 
ee, 
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw^ 
new gown. 
Or deposite her sair-won'^ penny-fee, 3 5 
To help her parents dear, if they in hard- 
ship be. 

With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters 
meet. 
An' each for other's weelfare kindly 
spiers :^ 
The social hours, swift- winged, un- 
noticed fleet; 
Each tells the uncos'' that he sees or 
hears. 40 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful 
years; 
Anticipation forward points the view; 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her 
sheers, 
Gars^ auld claes look amaist as weel's 
the new; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 

Their master's an' their mistress's com- 
mand 
The younkers a' are warned to obey; 
An' mind their labors wi' an eydent^ 
hand. 
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk'" 

or play : 
"An' 0! be sure to fear the Lord 
alway, 50 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn and 
night! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang 
astray. 
Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought 
the Lord aright!" 



' soon. ■ - drive. ' careful. •* fine. 

' hard-earned. * inquires. ' unusual things. 

s makes. ' diligent. '» dally. 



But hark! a rap comes gently to the 

door. _ 55 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the 

same. 

Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the 

moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her 

hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious 
flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her 
cheek; 60 

Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, in- 
quires his name. 
While Jenny hafflins" is afraid to speak; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae 
wild worthless rake. 

With kindly welcome Jenny brings him 

ben;i2 

A strappin' youth, he takes the 

mother's eye; 65 

Bly the Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen ; 

The father cracks^^ of horses, pleughs, 

and kye.^^ 

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows 

wi' joy, 
But, blate^^ and laithfu',^^ scarce can weel 
behave ; 
The mother wi' a woman's wiles can 
spy 70 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' 
sae grave, 
Weel-pleased to think her bairn's re- 
spected like the lave.^^ 

O happy love! where love hke this is 
found ! 
heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond 
compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal 
round, _ 75 

And sage experience bids me this de- 
clare — 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly 
pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, lo\ang, modest 
pair. 
In other's arms breathe out the tender 
tale, 80 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents 
the evening gale." 

"partly. '-within. "talks. '< cows. 

1= shy. i« bashful. " rest. 



372 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Is there, in human form, that bears a 
heart, 
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and 
truth! 
That can with studied, sly, ensnaring 
art 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting 
youth? 85 

Curse on his perjured arts! dissem- 
bhng, smooth! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child. 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their 
distraction wild? 90 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board, 
The halesome parritch,^ chief of 
Scotia's food; 
The soupe'^ their only hawkie^ does 
afford. 
That yont^ the hallan^ snugly chows 

her cood. 
The dame brings forth, in compli- 
mental mood, 95 

To grace the lad, her weel-hained^ 
kebbuck^ fell,8 
An' aft^ he's prest, an' aft he ca's it 
guid; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond^" auld, sin' lint^^ was 
i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious 

face, 100 

They round the ingle form a circle 

wide; 

The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace 

The big ha'-Bible,^^ ance his father's 

pride; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
His lyart^^ haffets^^ wearing thin and 
bare; 105 

Those strains that once did sweet in 
Zion glide. 
He wales^^ a portion with judicious care; 
And, "Let us worship God," he says with 
solemn air. 



1 porridge. - milk. ' cow. < beyond. 

» partition. ^ well-saved. ' cheese. ^ strong. 

' often. 1" twelve-month. i' since flax. 

12 hall-Bible. " grey. 

14 locks. " selects. 



They chant their artless notes in simple 

guise; 
They tune their hearts, by far the no- 
blest aim: no 
Perhaps Dundee's wild- warbling mea- 
sures rise. 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the 

name, 
Or noble Elgin beets^^ the heaven- 
ward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. 
Compared with these, Italian trills 
are tame; 115 

The tickled ear no heart-felt raptures 
raise; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's 
praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred 
page,— 
How Abram was the friend of God 
on high; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 120 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning 
lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's aveng- 
ing ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing 
cry; _ 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 125 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the 
theme, — 
How guiltless blood for guilty man 
was shed; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the 
second name. 
Had not on earth whereon to lay His 
head: 130 

How His first followers and servants 
sped; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many 
a land 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pro- 
nounced by Heaven's command. 135 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eter- 
nal King, 
The saint, the father, and the hus- 
band prays: 

16 kindles. 



BURNS 



373 



Hope "springs exulting on triumphant 
wing," 
That thus they all shall meet in 

future days: 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 140 
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's 
praise. 
In such society, yet still more dear. 
While circling Time moves round in an 
eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's 

pride 145 

In all the pomp of method and of art. 

When men display to congregations 

wide 

Devotion's ev'ry grace except the 

heart ! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant 
will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal 
stole; 150 

But haply in some cottage far apart 
May hear, well pleased, the language of 
the soul, 
And in His book of life the inmates poor 
enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 

way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to 

rest; _ _ 155 

The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm 

request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'- 
rous nest 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees 
the best, 160 

For them and for their Httle ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace 
divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's 

grandeur springs, 
That makes her loved at home, 

revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of 

kings, 165 

"An honest man's the noblest work 

of God": 
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly 

road, 



The cottage leaves the palace far be- 
hind: 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cum- 
brous load. 
Disguising oft the wretch of human 
kind, 170 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness 
refined ! 

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 
For whom my warmest wish to Hea- 
ven is sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic 
toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and 
sweet content! 175 

And, oh! may Heaven their simple 
lives prevent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and 
vile! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets 

be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the 
while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their 
much-loved isle. 180 

O Thou! who poured the patriotic 
tide 
That streamed thro' Wallace's un- 
daunted heart. 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic 
pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious 

part, — 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou 
art, 185 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and 
reward !) 
never, never Scotia's realm de- 
sert. 
But still the patriot, and the patriot- 
bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament 
and guard! 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR 
THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS 

JNIy Son, these maxims make a rule, 
An' lump them ay thegither; 

The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 
The Rigid Wise anither: 



374 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



The cleanest corn that e'er was dight' 
Ma}' hae some pyles o' caff- in; 

So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
For random fits o' daffin.^ 

Solomon. — Eccles. vii, i6. 

ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 
Sae pious and sae holy, 

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 
Your neebor's fauts and folly! 

Whase life is like a weel-gaun'* mill, 5 

Supplied wi' store o' water, 

The heapet happer's^ ebbing still, 
An' still the clap plays clatter, — 

Hear me, ye venerable core,® 

As counsel for poor mortals 10 

That frequent pass douce" Wisdom's door 

For glaikit^ Folly's portals; 

1 for their thoughtless, careless sakes 
Would here propone^ defences — 

Their donsie^'^ tricks, their black mistakes. 
Their failings and mischances. 16 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the nififer;^^ 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What makes the mighty dififer?^- 20 
Discount what scant occasion gave. 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft^^ mair than a' the lave)^"* 

Your better art o' hidin. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 25 

Gies noW' and then a wallop, 
What ragins must his veins convulse 

That still eternal gallop: 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way; 30 

But in the teeth o' baith^" to sail. 

It makes an unco^^ leeway. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugriiied,^^ they're grown 

Debauchery and Drinking: 36 

would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences; 
Or — your more dreaded hell to state — 

Damnation of expenses! 40 



^ winnowed. 

■• well-going. 

' grave. 
i» reckless. 
" often. 
IS tremendous. 



- grains of chafif. 

5 hopper. 

s giddy. 

" comparison. 

" rest. 



3 larking. 

s assembly. 

' proffer. 
'- difference. 
15 both. 
1' transformed. 



Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames. 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before you gie poor Frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases: 
A dear loved lad, convenience snug, 45 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug,^^ 

Ye're aiblins^^ nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man. 

Still gentler sister woman; 50 

Tho' they may gang a kennin-'^ wrang, 

To step aside is human: 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving Why they do it; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 55 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord, its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias: 60 

Then at the balance, let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly can compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM O' SHANTER 

A TALE 

Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. 
— Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies-^ leave the street. 
And drouthy-- neebors neebors meet. 
As market-days are wearing late. 
An' folk begin to tak the gate;-^ 
While we sit bousing at the nappy,^'* 5 
An' gettin fou and unco'-^ happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, -^ and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, 10 

Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonie lasses.) 16 



18 ear. 


'3 perhaps. 


20 trifle. 


=1 shopmen. 


" thirsty. 


23 go home. 


2<ale. 


25 wonderfully. 


26 gaps in the road 



BURNS 



375 



Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise 
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum/ 
A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum;^ 20 
That frae November till October, 
Ae^ market-day thou was nae sober; 
That ilka^ melder^ wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig^ was ca'd'^ a shoe on,^ 25 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; 
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied, that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drowned in 
Doon; 3° 

Or catched wi' warlocks^ in the mirk,^ 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames! it gars^° me greet,^^ 
To think how monie counsels sweet, 
How monie lengthened sage advices, 35 
The husband frae the wife despises! 

But to our tale:— Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right. 
Fast by an ingle, ^^ bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats^^ that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, 41 

His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie: 
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;^^ 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; 
And ay the ale was growing better: 46 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious 
Wi' secret favors, sweet and precious: 
The souter^'^ tauld his queerest stories; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 50 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drowned himsel amang the nappy: 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 55 
The minutes winged their way wi' pleas- 
ure; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the fiow'r, its bloom is shed; 60 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever; 

' rascal. - prattler. ■> one. * every. ' RrindinR. 

° nae. 'shod. 'wizards. 'dark. '"makes. 

" weep. 1- fireside. " foaming ale. " brother. '^ cobbler. 



Or like the borealis race. 

That flit ere you can point their place; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 65 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide: 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride, — 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 

stane, 
That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast 

in; 70 

And sic a night he taks the road in. 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last; 

The rattling showers rose on the blast; 

The speedy gleams the darkness swal- 
lowed; 75 

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bel- 
lowed: 

That night, a child might understand, 

The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, — 
A better never lifted leg, — 80 

Tam skelpit^^ on thro' dub^^ and mire, 
Despising wind and rain and fire; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bon- 
net. 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots 

sonnet, 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles^^ catch him unawares. 86 

Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets^^ nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snawthe chapman smoored;"° 
And past the birks^^ and meikle-- stane, 91 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;-^ 
And thro' the whins,-^ and by the cairn, ^^ 
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn f^ 
And near the thorn, aboon"'' the well, 95 
Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole. 
Near and more near the thunders roll; 100 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning 

trees 
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze :-^ 
Thro' ilka bore-^ the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 



•" hurried. 
-' birches. 
=« child. 



" mud. 
" big. 
2' above. 



'" bogies. 
23 neck. 



19 owls. ™ smothered. 
2* gorse. 2s rock-pile. 
^ blaze 



25 opeoiag. 



376 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 105 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny ^ we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae^ we'll face the devil! 
The swats^ sae reamed^ in Tammie's nod- 
dle, 
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.^ no 
But Maggie stood right sair astonished. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonished, 
She ventured forward on the light; 
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance; 115 

Nae cotillion brent-new^ frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and 

reels 

Put life and mettle in their heels: 

A winnock'^ bunker^ in the east. 

There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast; 120 

A towsie^ tyke,^° black, grim, and large, 

To gie them music was his charge; 

He screwed the pipes and gart^^ them 
skirl,i2 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.^^ — 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 125 
That shawed the dead in their last 

dresses; 
And by some devilish cantraip^^ sleight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table 130 

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;^^ 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape^^ — 
Wi' his last gasp his gab^^ did gape; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; 135 
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft — 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; 140 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowered, amazed and 
curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: 
The piper loud and louder blew, 145 

The dancers quick and quicker flew; 



3 ale. 

^ brand-new. 
9 shaggy. 
'2 scream. 
'5 irons. 
1' mouth. 



1 twopenny 


ale. 


2 whiskey. 


■• foamed. 




5 penny. 


' window. 




8 bench. 


"> dog. 




'1 made. 


" shake. 




'* magical. 


'^ rope. 







They reeled, they set, they crossed, they 

cleekit,^^ 
Till ilka carlin^^ swat^° and reekit,^^ 
And coost^" her duddies^^ to the wark^^ 
And linket^^ at it in her sark!^^ 150 

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been 

queans,^'^ 
A' plump and strapping in their teens! 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie^^ flannen,^^ 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder 

linen ! — 
Thir^*^ breeks o' mine, my only pair, 155 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies,^^ 
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! 



But Tam kend what was what fu' 
brawlie;^" 
There was ae winsome wench and wawlie,^^ 
That night enhsted in the core^^ 165 

Lang after kend on Carrick shore 
(For monie a beast to dead she shot. 
An' perished monie a bonie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,^^ 
And kept the country-side in fear). 170 
Her cutty sark^^ o' Paisley harn,^*^ 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie.^ 
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, 175 
That sark she coft^^ for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches). 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cour, 
Sic flights are far beyond her power; 180 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jad"*" she was and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood like ane bewitched. 
And thought his very een^^ enriched; 184 
Even Satan glowered and fidged^^ fu' fain, 
And hotched^^ and blew wi' might and 

main : 
Till first ae caper, syne^* anither, 
Tam tint^^ his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" 
And in an instant all was dark: 190 

And scarcely had he Maggie raUied, 
When out the hellish legion salUed. 

18 clutched. 19 old hag. ^ sweated, ^i steamed. 

22 threw. 23 clothes. =4 ^ork. 25 rushed. 

2« shirt. 27 young girls. 28 greasy. 29 flannel. 

30 these. 3' hips. ^2 well. ^^ handsome, 

^-i company. '^ barley. ^ chemise. ^' linen. 

38 proud. 39 bought. ■'" jade. ''• eyes. 

^2 fidgeted. *' squirmed. *^ then. *5 lost. 



BURNS 



377 



As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke/ 
When plundering herds assail their byke;^ 
As open pussie's^ mortal foes, 195 

When, pop! she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 199 
Wi' monie an eldritch^ skriech and hollo. 

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy 
f airin !^ 
In hell they'll roast thee Uke a herrin! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 205 
And win the key-stane of the brig:^ 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make. 
The fient'' a tail she had to shake! 210 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;^ 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought afif her master hale, 215 
But left behind her ain grey tail: 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk^ man and mother's son, take heed, 220 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's Mare. 



SCOTS WHA HAE 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 

Or to victorie! 
Now's the day, and now's the hour; 5 
See the front o' battle lour; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 

Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha ^^•ill be a traitor knave? 

Wha can fill a coward's grave? 10 

Wha sae base as be a slave? 

Let him turn and flee! 



' fury. 


- hive. 


' the hare's 


* unearthly. 


s reward. 


' bridpe. 


' devil. 


8 intent. 


• every. 



Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand or freeman fa', 15 

Let him follow me! 

By oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sons in servile chains! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free! 20 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 
Liberty's in every blow! — 

Let us do or die ! 



SONGS 
MARY MORISON 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wished, the trysted hour! 
Those smiles and glances let me see. 

That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,^*' 5 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 10 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw: 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,^^ 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sighed, and said among them a', 15 

"Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 20 

If love for love thou wilt na gie 

At least be pity to me shown: 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES 

Chorus. — Green grow the rashes, O; 
Green grow the rashes, 0; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I 
spend 
Are spent amang the lasses. 0. 

"> endure the struggle. " handsome. 



378 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



There's nought but care on ev'ry han', s 
In every hour that passes, O: 

What signifies the Hfe o' man, 
An 'twere na for the lasses, O? 

The war'ly^ race may riches chase, 

An' riches still may fly them, O; lo 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

But gie me a cannie^ hour at e'en. 

My arms about my dearie, O ; 
An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men, 15 

May a' gae tapsalteerie,^ 0. 

For you sae douce, ^ ye sneer at this; 

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: 
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 

He dearly loved the lasses, O. 20 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, 0: 

Her prentice han' she tried on man. 
An' then she made the lasses, 0. 



AULD LANG SYNE 

Should auld acquaintaince be forgot. 

And never brought to min'? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 

And auld lang syne? 

Cho. — For auld lang syne, my dear, 5 
For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 
For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'U be your pint-stowp,^ 
And surely I'll be mine! 10 

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 
For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes,^ 

And pu'd the gowans^ fine; 
But we've wandered monie a weary fit^ 15 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

We twa hae paidled^ i' the burn,^° 

From mornin' sun till dine;^^ 
But seas between us braid^- hae roared 

Sin' auld lang syne. 20 

■• sedate. 
8 foot. 
12 broad. 



1 worldly. 


2 quiet. 


' topsy-turvy. 


5 pint-cup. 


6 hillsides. 


'daisies. 


9 paddled. 


10 brook. 


12 noon. 



And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,^^ 

And gie's a hand o' thine; 
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught^^ 

For auld lang syne. 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
BLAW 

Of a' the airts^^ the wind can blaw 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bonie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best: 
There wild woods grow an' rivers row,^^ 5 

An' monie a hill between; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet an' fair: 10 

I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air: 
There's not a bonie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw,^'' or green; 
There's not a bonie bird that sings, 15 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



TAM GLEN 

My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie,^^ 
Some counsel unto me come len'; 

To anger them a' is a pity. 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic^^ a braw^° fellow, 5 
In poortith^^ I might mak a fen' -P 

What care I in riches to wallow. 
If I mauna marry Tam Glen? 

There's Lowrie, the laird o' Dumeller, 
"Guid-day to you," — brute! he comes 
ben:^^ 10 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance hke Tam Glen? 

My minnie^'* does constantly deave^® me. 
And bids me beware o' young men; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me; 15 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? 



13 comrade. 
" wood. 
2" handsome 
23 in. 



1^ draught. 
18 sister. 
21 poverty. 
' mother. 



1* ways. 
1' such. 
22 shift. 
25 deafen. 



16 roll. 



BURNS 



379 



My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hmider marks ten: 

But, if it's ordained I maun take him, 
wha will I get but Tam Glen? 20 

Yestreen at the valentines' dealing, 
My heart to my mou^ gied a sten :^ 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, "Tam Glen " ! 

The last Halloween I was waukin^ 25 

My droukit^ sark-sleeve,^ as ye ken: 

His likeness cam up the house staukin,^ 
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen! 

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry; 

I'll gie ye my bonie black hen, 30 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birth-place of valor, the country of 

w^orth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart 

is not here; 5 

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing 

the deer; 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following 

the roe. 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I 

go. 

Farewell to the mountains, high-covered 

with snow; 
Farewell to the straths'' and green valleys 

below; 10 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 

woods, 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 

floods. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart 

is not here; 
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing 

the deer; 

• mouth. 2 spring. ' watching. * wetted. 

5 shirt-sleeve, ^stalking. " river valleys. 



A-chasing the wild deer, and following 
the roe, 15 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever 
I go. 

GO FETCH TO ME A PINT O' WINE 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 

And fill it in a silver tassie;^ 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonie lassie: 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 5 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 

The glittering spears are ranked ready, 10 
The shouts o' war are heard afar. 

The battle closes deep and bloody; 
It's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 15 

It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary! 

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO 

John Anderson my jo,^ John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonie brow was brent ;^*' 
But now your brow is beld,^^ John, s 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow,^^ 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 10 

And monie a cantie^^ day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

And hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 15 

John Anderson my jo. 

WILLIE BREWED A PECK 0' MAUT 

O, Willie brewed a peck o' maut,^'* 
An' Rob an' Allan cam to see: 
Three blyther hearts that lee-lang^'^ night 
Ye wad na found in Christendie. 



8 goblet. 
'- head. 



' sweetheart. 
" happy. 



"> smooth. 
" malt. 



>> bald. 

'5 live-long. 



38o 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Chorus. — We are na fou, we're nae that 
fou, _ _ 5 

But just a drappie^ in our ee; 

The cock may craw, the day 
may daw,- 

And ay we'll taste the barley 
bree.^ 

Here are w^e met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we; lo 

An' monie a night we've merry been, 
And monie mae^ we hope to be ! 

It is the moon, I ken her horn. 

That's blinkin in the lift^ sae hie; 

She shines sae bright to wyle^ us hame, 15 

But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee! 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loun is he! 

Wha first beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang us three! 20 



FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes,^ 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy 

praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring 

stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds 

thro' the glen, 5 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 

den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming 

forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering 

fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring 

hills, 
Far marked with the courses of clear 

winding rills; 10 

There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my 

eye. 

' little drop. * dawn. ^ brew. 



■• more. 
6 entice. 



^ sky. 
' hillsides. 



How pleasant thy banks and green valleys 
below. 

Where wild in the woodlands the prim- 
roses blow; 

There oft, as mild Evening weeps over the 
lea, 15 

The sweet-scented birk^ shades my Mary 
and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it 

glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary 

resides; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet 

lave. 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy 

clear wave. 20 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my 

lays; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring 

stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

BONIE DOON 

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, 

How can ye blume sae fair? 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae fu' o' care? 

Thou'U break my heart, thou bonie bird, 5 

That sings upon the bough; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days, 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 
Thou sings beside thy mate; 10 

For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 
And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by bonie Doon 

To see the woodbine twine. 
And ilka^ bird sang o' its luve, 15 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Frae aff its thorny tree; 
And my fause luver staw^" my rose 

But left the thorn wi' me. 20 



8 birch. 



' eveiy. 



" stole. 



BURNS 



381 



AE FOND KISS 

Ae^ fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae farewell, and then forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 5 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 10 

But to see her was to love her; 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted — 15 

We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 

Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 

Thine be ilka^ joy and treasure, 

Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 20 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 

Ae farewell, alas, forever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! 



HIGHLAND MARY 

Ye banks, and braes,^ and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! ^ 
There simmer first unfald her robes, 5 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel, 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,^ 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 10 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me as light and life, 15 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder; 20 

'one. 2 every. 'hills. * muddy. 'birch. 



But O! fell death's untimely frost. 
That nipt my flower sae early! 

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 
That wraps my Highland Mary! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 25 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly! 
And closed for ay the sparkling glance, 

That dwalt on me sae kindly! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 30 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



DUNCAN GRAY 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) 
On blythe Yule night when we were fou,^ 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) 
Maggie coost^ her head fu high, 5 

Looked asklent^ and unco skeigh,^ 
Gart^'' poor Duncan stand abeigh;^^ 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't! 

Duncan fleeched,^^ and Duncan prayed; 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) 10 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) 
Duncan sighed baith out and in, 
Grat^^ his een^'* baith bleer't^^ and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin^^ o'er a linn;^'' 15 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't! 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

(Ha ha, the wooin o't!) 
Slighted love is sair to bide,^^ 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) 20 

"Shall I, like a fool," quoth he, 
"For a haughty hizzie^^ die? 
She may gae to — France for me!" 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't! 

How it comes let doctors tell, 25 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) 
Meg grew sick as he grew hale, 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't I) 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings; 30 

And O! her een, they spak sic things! 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't! 



« full. 


' tossed. 


' side wise. 


' verv shy 


'0 made. 


" aside. 


'= wheedled. 


" wept. 


" eyes. 


'5 bleared. 


'5 leapinR. 


>" waterfall 


18 endure. 






" hussy. 



382 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 35 

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) 
Duncan could na be her death. 
Swelling pity smoored^ his wrath; 
Now they're crouse'- and cantie^ baith; 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 4° 

From THE JOLLY BEGGARS 

See! the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring; 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing: 

Chorus 

A fig for those by law protected! 5 

Liberty's a glorious feast! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title? what is treasure? 

What is reputation's care? 10 

If we lead a life of pleasure, 

Tis no matter, how or where! 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 15 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 

Witness brighter scenes of love? 20 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! 25 
Here's to all our wandering train ! 

Here's our ragged brats and callets!^ 
One and all cry out. Amen ! 

CONTENTED WI' LITTLE AND 
CANTIE WI' MAIR 

Contented wi' little, and cantie^ wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather^ wi' Sorrow and 
Care, 



1 smothered. 
< trulb. 



' cheerful. 
' cheerful. 



3 happy. 
' associate. 



I gie them a skelp^ as they're creeping 

alang, 
Wi' a cog^ o' guid swats^ and an auld 

Scottish sang. 

I whiles claw^° the elbow o' troublesome 
Thought; _ _ 5 

But man is a soger, and life is a f aught; 

My mirth and guid humor are coin in my 
pouch, 

And my freedom's my lairdship nae 
monarch daur touch. 

A towmond^^ o' trouble, should that be 

my fa,'^^ 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers^^ it a'; 
When at the blythe end of our journey at 

last, II 

Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he 

has past? 

Blind Chance, let her snapper^^ and 
stoyte^^ on her way; 

Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade 
gae: 

Come ease or come travail, come pleasure 
or pain, 15 

My warst word is: "Welcome, and wel- 
come again!" 



A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hings his head, an ' a' that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 
We dare be poor for a' that! 

For a' that, an' a' that, 5 

Our toils obscure, an' a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp; 
The man's the gowd^^ for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hodden-gray,^^ an' a' that; 10 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that; 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 15 
Is king o' men for a' that. 

' rap. ^ bowl. ' ale. 

10 scratch. ii twelve-month, i^ [gt. 

13 makes it all up. " stumble. '* stagger. 

15 gold. 1' homespun grey. 



BLAKE 



383 



Ye see yon birkie,^ ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a cuif^ for a' that: 20 

For a' that, an' a' that. 

His riband, star, an' a' that. 
The man o' independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 25 

A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon^ his might, 
Guid faith, he mauna fa"* that! 
For a' that, an' a' that. 

Their dignities, an' a' that, 30 

The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth. 
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

(As come it will for a' that) 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 
Shall bear the gree,^ an' a' that. 36 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man to man, the world o'er, 
Shall brithers be for a' that. 40 



O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD 
BLAST 

O, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 5 

Around thee blaw, around thee 
blaw. 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the \^'ildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and 
bare, 10 

The desert wxre a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The brightest jewel in my crown 15 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



' young chap. 

* ainnot lay claim to. 



-■ fool. 



■> above. 
5 prize. 



WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) 

From SONGS OF INNOCENCE 

INTRODUCTION 

Piping down the valleys wild. 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child. 
And he laughing said to me: 

"Pipe a song about a Lamb!" 
So I piped with merry cheer. 

"Piper, pipe that song again;" 
So I piped: he wept to hear. 

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" 
So I sung the same again. 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

"Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book, that all may read." 

So he vanished from my sight; 
And I plucked a hollow reed, 

And I made a rural pen. 

And I stained the water clear. 

And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 

THE LAMB 

Little Lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight. 
Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice? 

Little Lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee. 

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee: 
He is called by thy name. 
For He calls Himself a Lamb. 
He is meek, and He is mild; 
He became a little child. 
I a child, and thou a lamb. 
We are called by His name. 

Little Lamb, God bless thee! 

Little Lamb, God bless theei 



15 



3S4 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



CRADLE SONG 

Sweet dreams, form a shade 
O'er my lovely infant's head; 
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams 
By happy, silent, moony beams. 

Sweet Sleep, with soft down 5 

Weave thy brows an infant crown. 
Sweet Sleep, angel mild, 
Hover o'er my happy child. 

Sweet smiles, in the night 

Hover over my delight; 10 

Sweet smiles, mother's smiles, 

All the Hvelong night beguiles. 

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs. 
Chase not slumber from thy eyes. 
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, 15 

All the dovelike moans beguiles. 

Sleep, sleep, happy child. 

All creation slept and smiled; 

Sleep, sleep, happy sleep. 

While o'er thee thy mother weep. 20 

Sweet babe, in thy face 
Holy image I can trace. 
Sweet babe, once like thee. 
Thy Maker lay and wept for me. 

Wept for me, for thee, for all, 25 

When he was an infant small. 
Thou his image ever see. 
Heavenly face that smiles on thee, 

Smiles on thee, on me, on all ; 
Who became an infant small. 30 

Infant smiles are His own smiles; 
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. 



THE LITTLE BLACK BOY 

My mother bore me in the southern wild. 
And I am black, but oh my soul is white ! 

White as an angel is the English child. 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree, 5 
And, sitting down before the heat of day. 

She took me on her lap and kissed me, 
And, pointing to the east, began to say : 



"Look on the rising sun, — there God does 

live, 

And gives his light, and gives his heat 

away; 10 

And flowers and trees and beasts and men 

receive 

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 

"And we are put on earth a little space. 

That we may learn to bear the beams of 

love; 

And these black bodies and this sunburnt 

face IS 

Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

" For when our souls have learned the heat 
to bear. 
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear his 
voice. 
Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my 
love and care, 
And round my golden tent like lambs 
rejoice.'" 20 

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me; 

And thus I say to little English boy. 
When I from black, and he from white 
cloud free. 
And round the tent of God like lambs 
we joy, 

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can 

bear 25 

To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; 

And then I'll stand and stroke his silver 

hair, 

And be like him, and he will then love 

me. 



From SONGS OF EXPERIENCE 
THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE 

"Love seeketh not itself to please, 

Nor for itself hath any care, 
But for another gives its ease, 

And builds a heaven in hell's despair." 

So sung a little clod of clay, ^ 

Trodden with the cattle's feet, 

But a pebble of the brook 

Warbled out these metres meet: 



CILABBE 



385 



"Love seeketh only Self to please, 
To bind another to its delight, 10 

Joys in another's loss of ease, 

And builds a hell in heaven's despite." 



THE SICK ROSE 

O Rose, thou art sick! 

The invisible worm, 
That flies in the night. 

In the howling storm, 

Has found out thy bed 

Of crimson joy, 
And his dark secret love 

Does thy life destroy. 



THE TIGER 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 5 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder and what art 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 10 
And, when thy heart began to beat. 
What dread hand? and what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp 15 

Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His.w^ork to see? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 20 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 



THE SUNFLOWER 

Ah, Sunflower I weary of time. 
Who countest the steps of the sun. 
Seeking after that sweet golden clime, 
Where the traveller's journey is done; 



Where the youth pined away with desire, 5 
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, 
Arise from their graves, and aspire 
Where my Sunflower wishes to go. 



From AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE 

To see a world in a grain of sand. 
And a heaven in a wild flower; 

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, 
And eternity in an hour. 



From MILTON 

And did those feet in ancient time 

Walk upon England's mountains green? 

And was the holy Lamb of God 

On England's pleasant pastures seen? 

And did the countenance divine 5 

Shine forth upon our clouded hills? 

And was Jerusalem builded here 
Among these dark Satanic mills? 

Bring me my bow of burning gold! 

Bring me my arrows of desire! 10 

Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! 

Bring me my chariot of fire! 

I will not cease from mental fight, 

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 

Till we have built Jerusalem 15 

In England's green and pleasant land. 



GEORGE CRABBE (1764-1832) 

From THE VILLAGE, Book I 

The village life, and every care that 
reigns 

O'er youthful peasants and declining 
swains ; 

What labor yields, and what, that labor 
past, 

Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; 

What form the real picture of the poor, 5 

Demand a song — the Muse can give no 
more. 
Fled are those times, when, in harmoni- 
ous strains. 

The rustic poet praised his native plains: 



386 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



No shepherds now, in smooth alternate 

verse, 
Their country's beauty or their nymphs' 

rehearse; lo 

Yet still for these we frame the tender 

strain, 
Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, 
/'And shepherds' boys their amorous pains 
( reveal, 

The only pains, alas! they never feel. 
On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounte- 
ous reign, iS 
If Tityrus found the Golden Age again. 
Must sleepy bards the flattering dream 

prolong, 
Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song? 
From Truth and Nature shall we widely 

stray, 
Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the 

way? 20 

/'Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy 

swains. 
Because the Muses never knew their 

pains : 
They boast their peasants' pipes; but peas- 
ants now 
Resign their pipes and plod behind the 

plough; 
And few amid the rural tribe have time 25 
To number syllables, and play with 

rhyme ; 
Save honest Duck, what son of verse 

could share 
The poet's rapture and the peasant's care? 
Or the great labors of the field degrade. 
With the new peril of a poorer trade? 30 
From this chief cause these idle praises 

spring. 
That themes so easy few forbear to sing; 
For no deep thought the trifling subjects 

ask; 
To sing of shepherds is an easy task; 
The happy youth assumes the common 

strain, 35 

A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain; 
With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful 

prayer. 
But all, to look like her, is painted fair. 
I grant indeed that fields and flocks have 

charms 
For him that grazes or for him that farms ; 
But when amid such pleasing scenes I 

trace 41 

The poor laborious natives of the place, 



And see the mid-day sun with fervid ray 

On their bare heads and dewy temples 
play; 

While some, with feebler heads and fainter 
hearts 45 

Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their 
parts — . "^ 

Then shall I dare these real ills to hide, 

In tinsel trappings of poetic pride? 

No; cast by Fortune on a frowning 
coast. 

Which neither groves nor happy valleys 
boast; 50 

Where other cares than those the Muse 
relates, 

And other shepherds dwell with other 
mates ; 

By such examples taught, I paint the cot, 

As Truth will paint it, and as bards will 
not: 

Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn com- 
plain, 55 

To you the smoothest song is smooth in 
vain; 

O'ercome by labor, and bowed down by 
time. 

Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?^ 

Can poets soothe you, when you pine for 
bread. 

By winding myrtles round your ruined 
shed? 60 

Can their light tales your weighty griefs 
o'erpower, 

Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour? 
Lo! where the heath, with withering 
brake grown o'er, 

Lends the light turf that warms the neigh- 
boring poor; 

From thence a length of burning sand ap- 
pears, 65 

Where the thin harvest waves its withered 
ears. 

Rank weeds, that every art and care defy. 

Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted 

i rye; 

! There thistles stretch their prickly arms 
I afar, 

I And to the ragged infant threaten war; 70 
There poppies, nodding, mock the hope of 

toil. 
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile 

soil; 
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, 
The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; 



CRABBE 



387 



O'er the young shoot the charlock throws 

a shade, 75 

And clasping tares cling round the sickly 

blade; 
With mingled tints the rocky coasts 

abound, 
And a sad splendor vainly shines around. 
So looks the nymph whom wretched arts 

adorn, 
Betrayed lay man, then left for man to 

scorn ; 80 

Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic 

rose, 
While her sad eyes the troubled breast 

disclose: 
Whose outward splendor is but folly's 

dress. 
Exposing most when most it gilds distress. 
Here joyless roam a wild amphibious 

race, 85 

With sullen woe displayed in every face; 
Who far from civil arts and social fly, 
And scowl at strangers with suspicious 

eye. 
Here too the lawless merchant of the 

main 
Draws from his plough the intoxicated 

swain ; 90 

Want only claimed the labor of the day. 
But vice now steals his nightly rest away. 
Where are the swains, who, daily labor 

done. 
With rural games played down the setting 

sun; 
Who struck with matchless force the 

bounding ball, 95 

Or made the ponderous quoit obhquely 

fall; 
While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong. 
Engaged some artful stripling of the 

throng. 
And fell beneath him, foiled, while far 

around 
Hoarse triumph rose, and rocks returned 

the sound? 100 

Where now are these? — Beneath yon cliff 

they stand, 
To show the freighted pinnace where to 

land; 
To load the ready steed with guilty haste, 
To fly in terror o'er the pathless waste, 
Or, when detected, in their straggling 

course, 105 

To foil their foes by cunning or by force; 



Or, yielding part (which equal knaves de- 
mand). 

To gain a lawless passport through the 
land. 



From THE BOROUGH 

.Old Peter Grimes made fishing his em- 
ploy; 
His wife he cabined with him and his boy. 
And seemed that life laborious to enjoy. 
To town came quiet Peter with his fish. 
And had of all a civil word and wish. 5 
He left his trade upon the Sabbath day. 
And took young Peter in his hand to pray: 
But soon the stubborn boy from care broke 

loose, 
At first refused, then added his abuse; 
His father's love he scorned, his power 
defied, 10 

But, being drunk, wept sorely when he 
died. 



WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES (1762-1850) 
TIME 

Time! who knowest a lenient hand to 

lay 
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly 

thence, 
LulUng to sad repose the weary sense. 
The faint pang stealest, unperceived, 

away; 
On thee I rest my only hope at last, 5 
And think when thou hast dried the bitter 

tear 
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held 

dear, 

1 may look back on every sorrow past. 
And meet life's peaceful evening with a 

smile: 
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, 
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient 

shower n 

Forgetful, though its "uings are wet the 

while: 
Yet, ah! how much must that p)Oor heart 

endure 
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, 

a cure. 



3S8- 



THE AGE OF CLASSICISM 



HOPE 

As one who, long by wasting sickness 

worn, 
Weary has watched the lingering night, 

and heard, 
Heartless, the carol of the matin bird 
Salute his lonely porch, now first at 

. morn 
Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed ; 5 
He the green slope and level meadow 

views, 
Delightful bathed in slow-ascending dews; 
Or marks the clouds that o'er the moun- 
tain's head 
In varying forms fantastic wander white; 
Or turns his ear to every random song 10 
Heard the green river's winding marge 

along. 
The while each sense is steeped in still 

delight: 
With such delight o'er all my heart I 

feel 
Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and 

healing incense steal. 



TO THE RIVER TWEED 

O Tweed ! a stranger, that with wandering 

feet 
O'er hill and dale has journeyed many a 

mile 
(If so his weary thoughts he might be- 
guile). 
Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to 

greet. 
The waving branches that romantic 

bend 
O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm 

bestow ; 6 

The murmurs of thy wandering wave 

below 
Seem to his ear the pity of a friend. 
Delightful stream! though now along thy 

shore. 
When spring returns in all her wonted 

pride, 10 

The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no 

more, 
Yet here with pensive peace I could abide, 
Far from the stormy world's tumultuous 

roar, 
To muse upon thy banks at eventide. 



BAMBOROUGH CASTLE 

Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn 

steep. 
Long may ye rear your aged brows sub- 
lime. 
Though, hurrying silent by, relentless time 
Assail you, and the winds of winter sweep 
Round your dark battlements; for far 

from halls 5 

Of Pride, here Charity hath fixed her seat; 
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds 

beat 
With hollow bodings round your ancient 

walls ; 
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour 
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on 

high, 10 

Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost 

tower. 
And turns her ear to each expiring cry. 
Blest if her aid some fainting wretch 

may save. 
And snatch him cold and speechless 

from the wave. 



WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH AFTER 
A TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE 

As slow I climbed the cliff's ascending 

side. 
Much musing on the track of terror past. 
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling 

blast. 
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil 

tide 
That laves the pebbled shore : and now the 

beam 5 

Of evening smiles on the gray battlement. 
And yon forsaken tower that Time has 

rent: — 
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam 
Is touched, and hushed is all the billowy 

deep! 
Soothed by the scene, thus on tired Na- 
ture's breast 10 
A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest; 
While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks 

to sleep, 
Like melodies which mourn upon the 

lyre. 
Waked by the breeze, and, as they 

mourn, expire! 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) 

From THE PREFACE TO THE 
LYRICAL BALLADS 

The principal object proposed in these 
poems was to choose incidents and situa- 
tions from common Hfe, and to re- 
late or describe them, throughout, as far 
as was possible, in a selection of language 
really used by men, and, at the same time, 
to throw over them a certain coloring 
of imagination, whereby ordinary things 
should be presented to the mind in an 
unusual aspect; and, further, and [lo 
above all, to make these incidents and 
situations interesting by tracing in them, 
truly though not ostentatiously, the 
primary laws of our nature: chiefly, as 
far as regards the manner in which we 
associate ideas in a state of excitement. 
Humble and rustic life was generally 
chosen, because, in that condition, the 
essential passions of the heart find a 
better soil in which they can attain [20 
their maturity, are less under restraint, 
and speak a plainer and more emphatic 
language; because in that condition of 
life our elementary feelings co-exist in a 
state of greater simplicity, and, conse- 
quently, may be more accurately con- 
templated, and more forcibly communi- 
cated; because the manners of rural life 
germinate from those elementary feelings; 
and from the necessary character of [30 
rural occupations, are more easily com- 
prehended, and are more durable; and, 
lastly, because in that condition the pas- 
sions of men are incorporated with the 
beautiful and permanent forms of na- 
ture. The language, too, of these men 
has been adopted (purified indeed from 
what appear to be its real defects, from 
all lasting and rational causes of dislike 
or disgust) because such men hourly [40 
communicate with the best objects from 
which the best part of language is orig- 
inally derived; and because, from their 



rank in society and the sameness and 
narrow circle of their intercourse, being 
less under the influence of social vanity, 
they convey their feelings and notions 
in simple and unelaborated expressions. 
Accordingly such a language, arising out 
of repeated experience and regular [50 
feelings, is a more permanent, and a far 
more philosophical language, than that 
which is frequently substituted for it by 
poets, who think that they are conferring 
honor upon themselves and their art, in 
proportion as they separate themselves 
from the sympathies of men, and indulge 
in arbitrary and capricious habits of ex- 
pression, in order to furnish food for fickle 
tastes, and fickle appetites, of their [60 
own creation. 

I cannot, however, be insensible to the 
present outcry against the triviality and 
meanness, both of thought and language, 
which some of my contemporaries have oc- 
casionally introduced into their metrical 
compositions; and I acknowledge that 
this defect, where it exists, is more dis- 
honorable to the writer's own character 
than false refinement or arbitrary in- [70 
novation, though I should contend at the 
same time, that it is far less pernicious in 
the sum of its consequences. From such 
verses the poems in these volumes will be 
found distinguished at least by one mark 
of difference, that each of them has a 
worthy purpose. Not that I always be- 
gan to write with a distinct purpose 
formally conceived; but habits of medi- 
tation have, I trust, so prompted and [80 
regulated my feelings, that my descrip- 
tions of such objects as strongly excite 
those feelings, will be found to carry 
along with them a purpose. If this opinion 
is erroneous, I can have Httle right to the 
name of a poet. For all good poetry is 
the spontaneous overflow of powerful 
feelings: and though this be true, poems 
to which any value can be attached were 
never produced on any variety of sub- [90 
jects but by a man, who, being possessed 
of more than usual organic sensibihty, 



389 



390 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



had also thought long and deeply. For 
our continued influxes of feeling are 
modified and directed by our thoughts, 
which are indeed the representatives of 
all our past feelings; and, as by contem- 
plating the relation of these general 
representatives to each other, we discover 
what is really important to men, so, [loo 
by the repetition and continuance of 
this act, our feelings will be connected 
with important subjects, till at length, 
if we be originally possessed of much 
sensibility, such habits of mind will be 
produced, that, by obeying blindly and 
mechanically the impulses of those habits, 
we shall describe objects, and utter senti- 
ments, of such a nature, and in such con- 
nection with each other, that the un- [no 
derstanding of the reader must neces- 
sarily be in some degree enlightened, and 
his affection strengthened and purified. 

It has been said that each of these 
poems has a purpose. Another circum- 
stance must be mentioned which dis- 
tinguishes these poems from the popular 
poetry of the day; it is this, that the feeling 
therein developed gives importance to 
the action and situation, and not the [120 
action and situation to the feeling. 

A sense of false modesty shall not pre- 
vent me from asserting, that the reader's 
attention is pointed to this mark of dis- 
tinction, far less for the sake of these par- 
ticular poems than from the general im- 
portance of the subject. The subject is 
indeed important! For the human mind 
is capable of being excited without the 
application of gross and violent stimu- [130 
lants; and he must have a very faint 
perception of its beauty and dignity who 
does not know this, and who does not 
further know, that one being is elevated 
above another, in proportion as he pos- 
sesses this capability. It has therefore 
appeared to me, that to endeavor to pro- 
duce or enlarge this capability is one of 
the best services in which, at any period, 
a writer can be engaged; but this [140 
service, excellent at all times, is especially 
so at the present day. For a multitude 
of causes, unknown to former times, are 
now acting with a combined force to blunt 
the discriminating powers of the mind, 
and, unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, 



to reduce it to a state of almost savage 
torpor. The most effective of these causes 
are the great national events which are 
daily taking place, and the increasing [150 
accumulation of men in cities, where the 
uniformity of their occupations produces 
a craving for extraordinary incident, 
which the rapid communication of intel- 
ligence hourly gratifies. To this ten- 
dency of life and manners the literature 
and theatrical exhibitions of the country 
have conformed themselves. The invalu- 
able works of our elder writers, I had 
almost said the works of Shakespeare [160 
and Milton, are driven into neglect by 
frantic novels, sickly and stupid German 
tragedies, and deluges of idle and ex- 
travagant stories in verse. — When I 
think upon this degrading thirst after 
outrageous stimulation, I am almost 
ashamed to have spoken of the feeble 
endeavor made in these volumes to coun- 
teract it; and, reflecting upon the mag- 
nitude of the general evil, I should be [170 
oppressed with no dishonorable melan- 
choly, had I not a deep impression of cer- 
tain inherent and indestructible qualities 
of the human mind, and likewise of cer- 
tain powers in the great and permanent 
objects that act upon it, which are equally 
inherent and indestructible; and were 
there not added to this impression a 
belief that the time is approaching when 
the evil will be systematically opposed, [180 
by men of greater powers, and with far 
more distinguished success. 

Having dwelt thus long on the subjects 
and aim of these poems, I shall request the 
reader's permission to apprise him of a 
few circumstances relating to their style, 
in order, among other reasons, that he 
may not censure me for not having per- 
formed what I never attempted. The 
reader wiU find that personifications [190 
of abstract ideas rarely occur in these 
volumes; and are utterly rejected as an 
ordinary device to elevate the style, and 
raise it above prose. My purpose was to 
imitate, and, as far as is possible, to adopt 
the very language of men; and assuredly 
such personifications do not make any 
natural or regular part of that language. 
They are, indeed, a figure of speech oc- 
casionally prompted by passion, and [200 



WORDSWORTH 



391 



I have made use of them as such; but I 
have endeavored utterly to reject them 
as a mechanical device of style, or as a 
family language which writers in meter 
seem to lay claim to by prescription. I 
have wished to keep the reader in the 
company of flesh and blood, persuaded 
that by so doing I shall interest him. 
Others who pursue a different track will 
interest him likewise; I do not inter- [210 
fere with their claim, but wish to prefer a 
claim of my own. There will also be found 
in these pieces little of what is usually 
called poetic diction; as much pains has 
been taken to avoid it as is ordinarily 
taken to produce it; this has been done 
for the reason already alleged, to bring 
my language near to the language of 
men, and further, because the pleasure 
which I have proposed to myself to [220 
impart, is of a kind very different from 
that which is supposed by many persons to 
be the proper object of poetry. Without 
being culpably particular, I do not know 
how to give my reader a more exact no- 
tion of the style in which it was my wish 
and intention to write, than by inform- 
ing him that I have at all times endeavored 
to look steadily at my subject; conse- 
quently there is, I hope, in these [230 
poems little falsehood of description, and 
my ideas are expressed in language fitted 
to their respective importance. Some- 
thing must have been gained by this 
practice, as it is friendly to one property 
of all good poetry, namely, good sense; 
but it has necessarily cut me off from a 
large portion of phrases and figures of 
speech which from father to son have 
long been regarded as the common [240 
inheritance of poets. I have also thought 
it expedient to restrict myself still further, 
havjng abstained from the use of many 
expressions, in themselves proper and 
beautiful, but which have been foolishly 
repeated by bad poets, till such feelings of 
disgust are connected with them as it is 
scarcely possible by any art of association 
to overpower. 

I have said that poetry is the spon- [250 
taneous overflow of powerful feelings; 
it takes its origin from emotion recol- 
lected in tranquillity; the emotion is con- 



templated, till, by a species of reaction, 
the tranquillity gradually disappears, and 
an emotion, kindred to that which was 
before the subject of contemplation, is 
gradually produced, and does itself ac- 
tually exist in the mind. In this mood suc- 
cessful composition generally begins, [260 
and in a mood similar to this it is carried 
on; but the emotion of whatever kind, 
and in whatever degree, from various 
causes, is qualified by various pleasures, 
so that in describing any passions what- 
soever, which are voluntarily described, 
the mind will, upon the whole, be in a 
state of enjoyment. If nature be thus 
cautious to preserve in a state of enjoyment 
a being so employed, the poet ought [270 
to profit by the lesson held forth to him, 
and ought especially to take care, that, 
whatever passions he communicates to 
his reader, those passions, if his reader's 
mind be sound and vigorous, should al- 
ways be accompanied with an overbal- 
ance of pleasure. Now the music of 
harmonious metrical language, the sense 
of difficulty overcome, and the blind asso- 
ciation of pleasure which has been [280 
previously received from works of rime or 
meter of the same or similar construction, 
an indistinct perception perpetually re- 
newed of language closely resembling 
that of real life, and yet, in the circum- 
stance of meter, differing from it so 
widely — all these imperceptibly make up a 
complex feeling of delight, which is of the 
most important use in tempering the 
painful feeling which is always found [290 
intermingled with powerful descriptions 
of the deeper passions. This effect is 
always produced in pathetic and impas- 
sioned poetry; while, in lighter composi- 
tions, the ease and gracefulness with 
which the poet manages his numbers are 
themselves confessedly a principal source 
of the gratification of the reader. All 
that it is necessary to say, however, upon 
this subject, may be effected by af- [300 
firming, what few persons will deny, that, 
of two descriptions, either of passions, 
manners, or characters, each of them 
equally well executed, the one in prose 
and the other in verse, the verse will be 
read a hundred times where the prose is 
read once. 



392 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 

I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sat reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant 

thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 5 

The human soul that through me ran; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green 

bower, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 10 

And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 
Their thoughts I cannot measure: 
But the least motion which they made 15 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I. must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 20 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man? 



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 

"Why, William, on that old grey stone, 
Thus for the length of half a day. 
Why, William, sit you thus alone. 
And dream your time away? 

"Where are your books? — that light be- 
queathed 5 
To beings else forlorn and blind! 
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind. 

"You look round on your Mother 

Earth, 
As if she for no purpose bore you ; 10 

As if you were her first-born birth. 
And none had lived before you!" 



One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
When life was sweet, I knew not why. 
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 
And thus I made reply: 

"The eye — it cannot choose but see; 
We cannot bid the ear be still; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
Against or with our will. 20 

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 
Of things forever speaking. 
That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must still be seeking? 

" — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
Conversing as I may, 30 

I sit upon this old grey stone, 
And dream my time away." 



THE TABLES TURNED 

An Evening Scene on the same Subject 

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; 
Or surely you'll grow double: 
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; 
Why all this toil and trouble? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 5 
A freshening lustre mellow 
Through all the long green fields has spread, 
His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10 

How sweet his music! on my life 
There's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 
He, too, is no mean preacher: 
Come forth into the light of things, 15 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth. 
Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health. 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20 



WORDSWORTH 



393 



One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25 
Our meddling intellect 
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things : — 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art; 
Close up those barren leaves; 30 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
That watches and receives. 



LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES 
ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON RE- 
VISITING THE BANKS OF THE 
WYE DURING A TOUR 

July 13, 1798 

Five years have past; five summers, with 
the length 
Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their mountain- 
springs 
With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and con- 
nect 
The landscape with the quiet of the 

sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-ground, these 
orchard-tufts, n 

Which at this season, with their unripe 

fruits. 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose them- 
selves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little 
lines 15 

Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral 

farms, 
Green to the very door; and wreaths of 

smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! 
With some uncertain notice, as might 
seem 



Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his 

fire 21 

The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been 

tome 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 25 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the 

heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 30 
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift, 36 
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed 

mood, 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 40 

Is lightened: — that serene and blessed 

mood 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 45 
In body, and become a living soul: 
While with an eye made quiet by the 

power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft — 50 
In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my 

heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 55 
sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the 

woods. 
How often has my spirit turned to thee! 
And now, with gleams of half-extin- 
guished thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 

The picture of the mind revives again: 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 



394 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 

thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 65 
Though changed, no doubt, from what 

I was when first 
I came among these hills; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the 

sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. 
Wherever nature led: more like a man 70 
Flying from something that he dreads, 

than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For 

nature then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 
And their glad animal movements all gone 

by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 75 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 

wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to 

me 
An appetite; a feeling and a love, 80 

That had no need of a remoter charm. 
By thought suppKed, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is 

past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 85 
Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other 

gifts 
Have followed; for such loss, I would 

believe, 
Abundant recompense. For I have 

learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often- 
times 90 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 

power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have 

felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the 

joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime, 95 
Of something far more deeply interfused. 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting 

suns. 
And the round ocean and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; 



A motion and a spirit, that impels 100 

All thinking things, all objects of all 

thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore 

am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
And mountains; and of all that we be- 
hold 
From this green earth; of all the mighty 
world 105 

Of eye, and ear, — both what they half 

create. 
And what perceive; well pleased to recog- 
nize 
In nature and the language of the sense. 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the 

nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and 
soul no 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the 

more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou my dearest friend. 
My dear, dear friend; and in thy voice I 
catch 116 

The language of my former heart, and 

read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 
My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I 

make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to 

lead 
From joy to joy: for she can so inform 125 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 

tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 

men. 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor 
all 130 

The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we be- 
hold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the 
moon 



WORDSWORTH 



395 



Shine on thee in thy sohtary walk; 135 
And let the misty mountain-winds be 

free 
To blow against thee: and, in after years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! 

then. 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what healing 

thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 145 
And these my exhortations! Nor, per- 
chance — 
If I should be where I no more can hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 

these gleams 
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful 

stream 150 

We stood together; and that I, so long 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
Unwearied in that service: rather say 
With warmer love — oh! wdth far deeper 

zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 

clififs, 157 

And this green pastoral landscape, were 

to me 
More dear, both for themselves and for 

thy sake! 



LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
— The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
W^ill never more be seen. 



"To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go; 
And take a lantern. Child, to light 15 

Your mother through the snow." 

"That, Father! will I gladly do: 

'Tis scarcely afternoon — 

The minster-clock has just struck two. 

And yonder is the moon!" 20 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band; 
He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 25 

With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time: 
She wandered up and down; 30 

And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 35 
To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on a hill they stood 
That overlooked the moor; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 40 

They wept — and, turning homeward, 

cried, 
"In heaven we all shall meet;" 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's 
edge 45 

They tracked the footmarks small; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone- wall; 

And then an open field they crossed: 
The marks were still the same; 50 

They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank; 55 

And further there were none! 



30 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



— ^Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. ' 60 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 



SHE DWELT AMONG THE UN- 
TRODDEN WAYS 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love: 

A violet by a mossy stone 5 

Half hidden from the eye! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 
When Lucy ceased to be; 10 

But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
The difference to me! 



THREE YEARS SHE GREW 

Three years she grew in sun and shower. 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 
This child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 5 

A lady of my own. 

"Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse: and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 10 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

" She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn. 

Or up the mountain springs; 15 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her; for her the willow bend; 20 

Nor shall she fail to see 



Even in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
By silent sympathy. 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 25 
To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward 

round. 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 30 

"And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 35 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 40 
The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 

A slumber did my spirit seal; 

I had no human fears: 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force; s 

She neither hears nor sees; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 



THE PRELUDE 

From Book I 

Childhood and Schooltime 

And in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and visible for many a mile 
The cottage windows blazed through twi- 
light gloom, 
I heeded not their summons: happy time 
It was indeed for all of us — for me 
It was a time of rapture! Clear and 



loud 



430 



WORDSWORTH 



397 



The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled 

about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. All shod 

with steel, 
We hissed along the polished ice in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 435 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding 

horn, 
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted 

hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we 

flew. 
And not a voice was idle; with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 440 
The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the 

stars 
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the 

west 445 

The orange sky of evening died away. 
Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous 

throng. 
To cut across the reflex of a star 450 

That fled, and, flying still before me, 

gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes, 
When we had given our bodies to the wind. 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping through the darkness, 

spinning still 455 

The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had 

rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round! 460 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn 

train. 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and 

watched 
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 

From Book IX 

Residence in France 

France lured me forth; the realm that I 
had crossed 
So lately, journeying toward the snow- 
clad Alps. 35 



But now, relinquishing the scrip and staft". 
And all enjoyment which the summer sun 
Sheds round the steps of those who meet 

the day 

With motion constant as his own, I went 

Prepared to sojourn in a pleasant town, 40 

Washed by the current of the stately Loire. 

Through Paris lay my readiest course, 

and there 
Sojourning a few days, I visited 
In haste, each spot of old or recent fame. 
****** 

Where silent zephyrs sported with the 

dust 
Of the Bastille, I sate in the open sun, 
And from the rubbish gathered up a stone. 
And pocketed the relic, in the guise 70 

Of an enthusiast: yet, in honest truth, 
I looked for something that I could not 

find. 
Affecting more emotion than I felt; 
For 'tis most certain, that these various 

sights. 
However potent their first shock, with 

me 75 

Appeared to recompense the traveller's 

pains 
Less than the painted Magdalene of Le 

Brun, 
A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair 
Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful 

cheek 
Pale and bedropped with overflowing 

tears. 80 



I stood 'mid those concussions, uncon- 
cerned. 

Tranquil almost, and careless as a flower 

Glassed in a green-house, or a parlor 
shrub 

That spreads its leaves in unmolested 
peace. 

While every bush and tree, the country 
through, 90 

Is shaking to the roots. 

****** 

A band of military Officers, 125 

Then stationed in the city, were the chief 
Of my associates: some of these wore 

swords 
That had been seasoned in the wars, and 

all 



398 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Were men well-born; the chivalry of 

France. 
In age and temper differing, they had 
yet 130 

One spirit ruling in each heart; alike 
(Save only one, hereafter to be named) 
Were bent upon imdoing what was done : 
This was their rest and only hope; there- 
with 
No fear had they of bad becoming worse, 
For bad to them was come; nor would 
have stirred, 136 

Or deemed it worth a moment's thought to 

stir, 
In anything, save only as the act 
Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by 

years, 
Was in the prime of manhood, and ere- 
while 140 

He had sate lord in many tender hearts; 
Though heedless of such honors now, and 

changed: 
His temper was quite mastered by the 

times, 
And they had blighted him, had eaten 

away 
The beauty of his person, doing wrong 145 
Alike to body and to mind: his port, 
Which once had been erect and open, 

now 
Was stooping and contracted, and a face 
Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts 
Of symmetry and light and bloom, ex- 
pressed, 150 
As much as any that was ever seen, 
A ravage out of season, made by thoughts 
Unhealthy and vexatious. ... 

'Twas in truth an hour 
Of universal ferment ; mildest men 
Were agitated; and commotions, strife 
Of passion and opinion, filled the walls 
Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds. 165 
The soil of life was, at that time, 
Too hot to tread upon. 



Along that very Loire, with festal 
mirth 431 

Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet 
Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk. 
. . . And when we chanced 
One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl, 510 
Who crept along fitting her languid gait 
Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord 



Tied to her arm, and picking thus from 

the lane 
Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid 

hands 
Was busy knitting in a heartless mood 515 
Of solitude, and at the sight my friend 
In agitation said, " 'Tis against that 
That we are fighting," I with him believed 
That a benignant spirit was abroad 
Which might not be withstood, that 

poverty 520 

Abject as this would in a little time 
Be found no more, that we should see the 

earth 
Unthwarted in her wish to recompense 
The meek, the lowly, patient child of toil, 
All institutes for ever blotted out 525 

That legalised exclusion, empty pomp 
Abolished, sensual state and cruel power 
Whether by edict of the one or few; 
And finally, as sum and crown of all. 
Should see the people having a strong 

hand 530 

In framing their own laws; whence better 

days 
To all mankind. 

From Book X 

Residence in France {continued) 

Cheered with this hope, to Paris I re- 
turned, 
And ranged, %\dth ardor heretofore unfelt, 
The spacious city, and in progress passed 
The prison where the unhappy Monarch 
lay, 51 

Associate vnth his children and his wife 
In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed 
With roar of cannon by a furious host. 
I crossed the square (an empty area then!) 
Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain 56 
The dead, upon the dying heaped, and 

gazed 
On this and other spots, as doth a man 
Upon a volume whose contents he knows 
Are memorable, but from him locked up, 
Being written in a tongue he cannot read, 
So that he questions the mute leaves 
with pain, 62 

And half upbraids their silence. But that 

night 
I felt most deeply in what world I was. 
What ground I trod on, and what air 
I breathed. 65 



WORDSWORTH 



399 



High was my room and lonely, near the 

roof 
Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge 
That would have pleased me in more quiet 

times; 
Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. 
With unextinguished taper I kept watch, 
Reading at intervals; the fear gone by 71 
Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. 
I thought of those September massacres, 
Divided from me by one little month, 
Saw them and touched: the rest was con- 
jured up _ 75 
From tragic fictions or true history. 
Remembrances and dim admonishments. 
The horse is taught his manage, and no 

star 
Of wildest course but treads back his own 

steps; 
For the spent hurricane the air provides 80 
As fierce a successor; the tide retreats 
But to return out of its hiding-place 
In the great deep; all things have second 

birth ; 
The earthquake is not satisfied at once; 
And in this way I wrought upon myself, 85 
Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried, 
To the whole city, "Sleep no more." 

The trance 
Fled with the voice to which it had given 

birth; 
But vainly comments of a calmer mind 
Promised soft peace and sweet forgetful- 

ness. 90 

The place, all hushed and silent as it was. 
Appeared unfit for the repose of night. 
Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam. 

MICHAEL 

A PASTORAL POEM 

If from the public way you turn your 

steps 
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 

Ghyll, 
You will suppose that with an upright 

path 
Your feet must struggle; in such bold 

ascent 
The pastoral mountains front you face to 

face. 5 

But courage! for around that boisterous 

brook 



The mountains have all opened out them- 
selves, 

And made a hidden valley of their own. 

No habitation can be seen: but they 

Who journey thither find themselves alone 

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, 
and kites u 

That overhead are sailing in the sky. 

It is in truth an utter solitude; 

Nor should I have made mention of this 
Dell 

But for one object which you might pass 

by, ^ IS 

Might see and notice not. Beside the 

brook' 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn 

stones ! 
And to that simple object appertains 
A story, tmenriched with strange events. 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 
Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
Whom I already loved; not verily 
For their own sakes, but for the fields and 

hills 
Where was their occupation and abode. 
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy 
Careless of books, yet having felt the 

power 
Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
Of natural objects, led me on to feel 30 
For passions that were not my own, and 

think 
(At random and imperfectly indeed) 
On man, the heart of man, and human 

life. 
Therefore, although it be a history 
Homely and rude, I will relate the same 35 
For the delight of a few natural hearts; 
And, wdth yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Of youthful Poets who among these hills 
Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his 

name ; 41 

An old man, stout of heart, and strong of 

limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to 

age 
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45 
And in his shepherd's calling he was 

prompt 



400 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all 

winds, 
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, 
When others heeded not, he heard the 
South 50 

Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his 

flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would 

say, 
' ' The winds are now devising work for me ! " 
And truly, at all times, the storm, that 
drives 56 

The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains; he had been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
That came to him and left him on the 
heights. 60 

So lived he till his eightieth year was 

past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should 

suppose 
That the green valleys, and the streams 

and rocks. 
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had 
breathed 65 

The common air; hills, which with vigor- 
ous step 
He had so often cUmbed; which had im- 
pressed 
So many incidents upon his mind 
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 
Which like a book preserved the memory 
Of the dumb animals whom he had 
saved, 71 

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts, 
The certainty of honorable gain; 
Those fields, those hills — what could they 

less? — had laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 76 
The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
His days had not been passed in single- 
ness. 
His helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty 
years. 80 

She was a woman of a stirring life. 
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels 
she had 



Of antique form, this large for spinning 

wool. 
That small for flax; and if one wheel had 

rest, 
It was because the other was at work. 85 
The pair had but one inmate in their 

house, 
An only child, who had been bom to 

them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, 

began 
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's 

phrase. 
With one foot in the grave. This only 

son, 90 

With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many 

a storm. 
The one of an inestimable worth, 
j Made all their household. I may truly 

say, , 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When day was 

gone, _ 95 

And from their occupations out of doors 
The son and father were come home, even 

then. 
Their labor did not cease; unless when 

all 
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and 

there. 
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed 

milk, 100 

Sat round the basket piled with oaten 

cakes. 
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 

when the meal 
Was ended, Luke (for so the son was 

named) 
And his old father both betook them- 
selves 
To such convenient work as might employ 
Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to 

card , 106 

Wool for the housewife's spindle, or re- 
pair 
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe. 
Or other implement of house or field. 
Down from the ceiling by the chimney's 

edge no 

That in our ancient uncouth country 

style 
With huge and black projection over- 
browed 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 



WORDSWORTH 



401 



Of day grew dim the housewife hung a 

lamp; 
An aged utensil, which had performed 115 
Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 
Which going by from year to year had 

found 
And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with 

hopes, 121 

Living a life of eager industry. 
And now, when Luke had reached his 

eighteenth year. 
There by the light of this old lamp they 

sat. 
Father and son, while far into the night 
The housewife plied her own peculiar 

work, 126 

Making the cottage through the silent 

hours 
Murmur as with the sound of summer 

flies. 
This light was famous in its neighbor- 
hood. 
And was a public symbol of the life 130 
That thrifty pair had lived. For, as it 

chanced. 
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
Stood single, with large prospect, north 

and south. 
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail- 

Raise, 
And westward to the village near the 

lake; 135 

And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the house itself, by all 
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 
Both old and young, was named The 

Evening Star. 
Thus living on through such a length of 

years 140 

The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must 

needs 
Have loved his helpmate; but to Mi- 
chael's heart 
This son of his old age was yet more 

dear — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood 

of all— 145 

Than that a child, more than all other 

gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man, 



Brings hope with it; and forward looking 

thoughts. 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By tendency of nature needs must fail. 1 50 
Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
His heart and his heart's joy! For often- 
times 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms. 
Had done him female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 155 
Of fathers, but with patient mind en- 
forced 
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked 
His cradle as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael 

love, 160 

Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
To have the young one in his sight, when 

he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's 

stool 
Sat with a fettered sheep before him 

stretched. 
Under the large old oak, that near his 

door 165 

Stood single, and, from matchless depth 

of shade. 
Chosen for the shearer's covert from the 

sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it 

bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the 

shade, 1 70 

With others round them, earnest all and 

blithe. 
Would Michael exercise his heart with 

looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his 

shouts 175 

Scared them, while they lay still beneath 

the shears. 
And when by Heaven's good grace the 

boy grew up 
A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old, 
Then ISIichael from a winter coppice cut 
With his own hand a sapling, which he 

hooped 181 

With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's stafiF, 



402 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And gave it to the boy; wherewith 
equipped 

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; 

And, to his office prematurely called, 187 

There stood the urchin, as you will divine. 

Something between a hindrance and a 
help; 

And for this course not always, I be- 
lieve, 190 

Receiving from his father hire of praise; 

Though nought was left undone which 
staff or voice, 

Or looks, or threatening gestures, could 
perform. 
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, 
could stand 

Against the mountain blasts; and to the 
heights, _ 195 

Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways. 

He with his father daily went, and they 

Were as companions, why should I relate 

That objects which the Shepherd loved 
before 

Were dearer now? that from the boy there 
came 200 

Feelings and emanations — things which 
were 

Light to the sun and music to the wind; 

And that the old man's heart seemed born 
again? 

Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up; 

And now when he had reached his eight- 
eenth year, 205 

He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
While in this sort the simple household 
lived 

From day to day, to Michael's ear there 
came 

Distressful tidings. Long before the time 

Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been 
bound 210 

In surety for his brother's son, a man 

Of an industrious life, and ample means; 

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 

Had pressed upon him; and old Michael 
now 

Was summoned to discharge the forfei- 
ture, 215 

A grievous penalty, but little less 

Than half his substance. This unlooked 
for claim 

At the first hearing, for a moment took 

More hope out of his life than he supposed 



That any old man ever could have lost. 220 
As soon as he had armed himself with 

strength 
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at 

once 
A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
Such was his first resolve; he thought 

again, 225 

And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said 

he. 
Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
"I have been toiling more than seventy 

years. 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived; yet if these fields of 

ours 230 

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 235 
To my own family. An evil man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us; and if he were not false, 
There are ten thousand to whom loss like 

this 
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but 
'T were better to be dumb, than to talk 

thus. 241 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 
He shall possess it free as is the wind 246 
That passes over it. We have, thou 

know'st, 
Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall 

go, _ 250 

And with his kinsman's help and his own 

thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here he stay. 
What can be done? Where every one is 

poor. 
What can be gained? " 255 

At this the old man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to 

herself. 
He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 



WORDSWORTH 



403 



They made a gathering for him, shillings, 

pence, 260 

And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors 

bought 
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's 

wares ; 
And with this basket on his arm, the lad 
Went up to London, found a master there. 
Who out of many chose the trusty boy 265 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas: where he grew wondrous 

rich, 
And left estates and monies to the poor, 
And at his birthplace built a chapel floored 
With marble which he sent from foreign 

lands. 270 

These thoughts, and many others of like 

sort, 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old man 

was glad. 
And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! this 

scheme 
These two days has been meat and drink 

to me. 275 

Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
Were younger, — but this hope is a good 

hope. 
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the 

best 
Buy for him more, and let us send him 

forth 280 

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 

If he could go, the boy should go to-night." 

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields 

went forth 
With a light heart. The housewife for 

five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day 

long _ 285 

W'rought on with her best fingers to pre- 
pare 
Things needful for the journey of her 

son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work: for, when she 

lay 
By Michael's side, she through the last two 

nights 290 

Heard him, how he was troubled in his 

sleep: 
And when they rose at morning she could 

see 



That all his hopes were gone. That day 

at noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by them- 
selves 
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not 
go: _ 295 

We have no other child but thee to lose, 
None to remember^do not go away. 
For if thou leave thy father he will die." 
The youth made answer with a jocund 

voice; 
And Isabel, when she had told her 
fears, 300 

Recovered heart. That evening her best 

fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
With daylight Isabel resumed her work; 
And all the ensuing week the house ap- 
peared 305 
As cheerful as a grove in spring: at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman 

came. 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the boy; 
To which, requests were added, that forth- 
with 310 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or 

more 
The letter was read over; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbors 

round; 

Nor was there at that time on English land 

A prouder heart than Luke's. When 

Isabel 315 

Had to her house returned, the old man 

said^ 
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this 

word 
The housewife answered, talking much of 

things 
Which, if at such short notice he should go. 
Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
She gave consent, and Michael was at 
ease. 320 

Near the tumultuous brook of Green- 
head Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a sheepfold; and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss, 325 

For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's 

edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 



404 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



With Luke that evening thitherward he 

walked; 
And soon as they had reached the place he 

stopped, 33° 

And thus the old man spake to him: — 

"My son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full 

heart 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 335 
I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories; 't will do thee good 
When thou art from me, even if I should 

touch 
On things thou canst not know of. — After 

thou 
First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 
To new-born infants — thou didst sleep 

away 341 

Two days, and blessings from thy father's 

tongue 
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed 

on, 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
Than when I heard thee by our own fire- 
side , 346 
First uttering, without words, a natural 

tune; 
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy 

joy 
Sing at thy mother's breast. Month fol- 
lowed month. 
And in the open fields my life was passed 
And on the mountains; else I think that 

thou 351 

Hadst been brought up upon thy father's 

knees. 
But we were playmates, Luke: among 

these hills. 
As well thou knowest, in us the old and 

young 
Have played together, nor with me didst 

thou 355 

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
Luke had a manly heart; but at these 

words 
He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped 

his hand 
And said, "Nay, do not take it so — I see 
That these are things of which I need not 

speak. 360 

Even to the utmost I have been to thee 



A kind and a good father: and herein 
I but repay a gift which I myself 
Received at others' hands; for, though now 

old 
Beyond the common life of man, I still 365 
Remember them who loved me in my 

youth. 
Both of them sleep together: here they 

lived, 
As all their forefathers had done; and 

when 
At length their time was come, they were 

not loath 
To give their bodies to the family mould, 3 70 
I wished that thou should'st live the life 

they lived. 
But 't is a long time to look back, my son, 
And see so little gain from threescore 

years. 
These fields were burdened when they 

came to me; 
Till I was forty years of age, not more 375 
Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my 

work, 
And till these three weeks past the land 

was free. 
It looks as if it never could endure 
Another master. Heaven forgive me, 

Luke, 380 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
That thou should'st go." 

At this the old man paused ; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which 

they stood, 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: 
"This was a work for us; and now, my 

son, 385 

It is a work for me. But lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own 

hands. 
Nay, boy, be of good hope; — we both may 

live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale; — do thou thy 

part, 390 

I will do mine. — I will begin again 
With many tasks that were resigned to 

thee; 
Up to the heights, and in among the 

storms, ~ 
Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do 

alone, 395 



WORDSWORTH 



405 



Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless 

thee, boy! 
Thy heart these two weeks has been 

beating fast' 
With many hopes; it should be so — yes — 

yes — 
I knew that thou could'st never have a 

wish 
To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound 

to me 400 

Only by links of love: when thou art 

gone, 
What will be left to us!— But I forget 
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. 
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 
When thou art gone away, should evil 

men 405 

Be thy companions, think of me, my son. 
And of this moment; hither turn thy 

thoughts, 
And God will strengthen thee: amid all 

fear 
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
May'st bear in mind the life thy fathers 

lived, 410 

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare 

thee well — 
When thou return'st, thou in this place 

wilt see 
A work which is not here: a covenant 
'T will be between us; but, whatever fate 
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 416 
And bear thy memory with me to the 

grave." 
The Shepherd ended here; and Luke 

stooped down, 
And, as his father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the sheepfold. At the 

sight 420 

The old man's grief broke from him; to 

his heart 
He pressed his son, he kissed him and 

wept; 
And to the house together they returned. 
Hushed was that house in peace, or seem- 
ing peace, 
Ere the night fell; — with morrow's dawn 

the boy 425 

Began his journey, and when he had 

reached 
The public way, he put on a bold face; 
And all the neighbors, as he passed their 

doors, 



Came forth with wishes and with farewell 

prayers. 
That followed him till he was out of 

sight. ^ 430 

A good report did from their kinsman 

come. 
Of Luke and his well doing: and the boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous 

news. 
Which, as the housewife phrased it, were 

throughout 
" The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
Both parents read them with rejoicing 

hearts. 436 

So, many months passed on: and once 

again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and 

now 
Sometimes when he could find a leisure 

hour 440 

He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the sheepfold. Meantime 

Luke began 
To slacken in his duty; and at length 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses: ignominy and shame 445 
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
There is a comfort in the strength of 

love; 
'T will make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the 

heart: 450 

I have conversed with more than one who 

well 
Remember the old man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to 

age 454 

Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked up to sun and 

cloud 
And listened to the ■v\and; and as before 
Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep. 
And for the land his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 
Did he repair, to build the fold of which 461 
His flock had need. 'T is not forgotten yet 
The pity which was then in ever}' heart 
For the old man — and 't is believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither 

went, 465 

And never lifted up a single stone. 



4o6 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was 

he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful dog. 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time 

to time, 470 

He at the building of this sheepfold 

wrought. 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her husband: at her death the 

estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
The cottage which was named The Evening 

Star 476 

Is gone — the ploughshare has been through 

the ground 
On which it stood; great changes have been 

wrought 
In all the neighborhood: — yet the oak is 

left 
That grew beside their door; and the re- 
mains 480 
Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead 

GhylL 



MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I 
BEHOLD 

My heart leaps up when I behold 
A rainbow in the sky: 
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old, s 

Or let me die! 
The child is father of the man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



RESOLUTION AND INDEPEND- 
ENCE 

There was a roaring in the wind all night; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods; 
But now the sun is rising calm and bright; 
The birds are singing in the distant 

woods: 
Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove 

broods; 5 



The jay makes answer as the magpie 

chatters; 
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise 

of waters. 

All things that love the sun are out of 

doors; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 
The grass is bright with rain-drops; — on 

the moors 10 

The hare is running races in her mirth; 
And with her feet she from the plashy 

earth 
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 
Runs with her all the way wherever she 

doth run. 

I was a traveller then upon the moor; 15 
I saw the hare that raced about with 

joy; 

I heard the woods and distant waters 

roar. 
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: 
The pleasant season did my heart employ: 
My old remembrances went from me 
wholly; 20 

And all the ways of men so vain and mel- 
ancholy. 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the 

might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low, 25 
To me that morning did it happen so; 
And fears, and fancies, thick upon me 

came; 
Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew 

not, nor could name. 

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
And I bethought me of the playful hare: 30 
Even such a happy child of earth am I; 
Even as these blissful creatures do I 

fare; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all 

care; 
But there may come another day to me — 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and 

poverty. 35 

INIy whole life I have lived in pleasant 

thought. 
As if life's business were a summer mood; 



WORDSWORTH 



407 



As if all needful things would come un- 
sought 

To genial faith, still rich in genial good; 

But how can he expect that others should 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his 
call 41 

Love him, who for himself will take no 
heed at all? 

I thought of Chatterton, the marvelous 
boy, 

The sleepless soul that perished in his 
pride; 

Of him who walked in glory and in joy 45 

Following his plough, along the mountain- 
side: 

By our own spirits are we deified: 

We poets in our youth begin in glad- 
ness; 

But thereof come in the end despondency 
and madness. 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 50 
A leading from above, a something given. 
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place. 
When I with these untoward thoughts 

had striven. 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a man before me unawares: 55 

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore 

gray hairs. 

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 

Couched on the bald top of an eminence; 

Wonder to all who do the same espy. 

By what means it could thither come, and 
whence; 60 

So that it seems a thing endued with 
sense: 

Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a 
shelf 

Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun it- 
self; 

Such seemed this man, not all ahve nor 

dead, 
Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age: 65 
His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage; 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or 

rage 
Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
A more than human weight upon his 

frame had cast. 70 



Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale 

face, 
Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood: 
And, still as I drew near with gentle 

pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood; 
That heareth not the loud winds when 

they call, 76 

And moveth altogether, if it move at all. 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff and fixedly did look 
Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 
As if he had been reading in a book : 81 
And now a stranger's privilege I took; 
And, drawing to his side, to him did say 
"This morning gives us promise of a 
glorious day." 

A gentle answer did the old man make, 85 

In courteous speech which forth he 
slowly drew: 

And him with further words I thus be- 
spake, 

"What occupation do you there pursue? 

This is a lonesome place for one hke 
you." 

Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid 
eyes. 91 

His words came feebly, from a feeble 

chest, 
But each in solemn order followed each. 
With something of a lofty utterance 

dressed ; 
Choice word, and measured phrase, above 

the reach 95 

Of ordinary men; a stately speech; 
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
Religious men, who give to God and man 

their dues. 

He told, that to these waters he had come 
To gather leeches, being old and poor: 100 
Employment hazardous and wearisome! 
And he had many hardships to endure: 
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor 

to moor; 
Housing, with God's good help, by choice 

or chance; 
And in this way he gained an honest main- 
tenance. 105 



4o8 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



The old man still stood talking by my 

side; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard; nor word from word could 

I divide; 
And the whole body of the man did seem 
Like one whom I had met with in a dream ; 
Or like a man from some far region sent, 
To give me human strength, by apt ad- 
monishment. 112 

My former thoughts returned: the fear 

that kills; 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed; 
Cold, pain and labor, and all fleshly ills; 
And mighty poets in their misery dead. 
Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
My question eagerly did I renevv^, nS 

"How is it that you live, and what is it 

you do?" 

He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and 

wide 121 

He travelled; stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the pools where they abide. 
"Once I could meet with them on every 

side; 
But they have dwindled long by slow 

decay; 125 

Yet still I persevere, and find them where 

I may." 

While he was talking thus, the lonely 
place, 

The old man's shape, and speech, all 
troubled me: 

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him 
pace 

About the weary moors continually, 130 

Wandering about alone and silently. 

While I these thoughts wdthin myself 
pursued. 

He, ha\dng made a pause, the same dis- 
course renewed. 

And soon with this he other matter 

blended, 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind, 
But stately in the main; and when he 

ended, 136 

I could have laughed myself to scorn to 

find 
In that decrepit man so firm a mind. 



"God," said I, "be my help and stay 

secure ; 
I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the 

lonely moor!" 140 



YEW-TREES 

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton 

Vale, 
Which to this day stands single, in the 

midst 
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore; 
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands 
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 5 
To Scotland's heaths; or those that 

crossed the sea 
And drew their sounding bows at Azin- 

cour. 
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
This solitary Tree! a living thing 10 

Produced too slowly ever to decay; 
Of form and aspect too magnificent 
To be destroyed. But worthier still 

of note 
Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, 
Joined in one solemn and capacious 

grove; 15 

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk 

a growth 
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; 
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks 
That threaten the profane; — a pillared 

shade, 20 

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown 

hue. 
By sheddings from the pining umbrage 

tinged 
Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 
With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes 
May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling 

Hope, 26 

Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton 
And Time the Shadow; — there to cele- 
brate. 
As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 30 
United worship; or in mute repose 
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost 

caves. 



WORDSWORTH 



409 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH 

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, 

At thought of what I now behold: 

As vapors breathed from dungeons cold 

Strike pleasure dead, 
So sadness comes from out the mould 5 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near, 
And thou forbidden to appear? 
As if it were thyself that's here 

I shrink with pain; 10 

And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Ofif weight — nor press on weight! — away 
Dark thoughts! — they came, but not to 

stay; 
With chastened feelings would I pay 15 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

From mortal view. 

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
He sang, his genius "glinted" forth, 20 
Rose like a star that touching earth, 

For so it seems. 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, 25 
The struggling heart, where be they 

now? — 
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough. 

The prompt, the brave, 
Slept, ^^ith the obscurest, in the low 

And silent grave. 30 

I mourned \\ath thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light I hailed when first it shone, 

And showed my youth 
How verse may build a princely throne 35 

On humble truth. 

Alas! where'er the current tends. 
Regret pursues and with it blends, — 
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends 

By Skiddaw seen, — 40 

Neighbors we were, and loving friends 

We might have been; 



True friends though diversely inclined; 
But heart with heart and mind with mind, 
Where the main fibres are entwined, 45 

Through Nature's skill, 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 

The tear will start, and let it flow; 

Thou ''poor Inhabitant below," 50 

At this dread moment — even so — 

Might we together 
Have sat and talked where gowans blow, 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasures would have then been 
placed 55 

Within my reach; of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich repast! 

But why go on? — 
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast. 

His grave grass-grown. 60 

There, too, a son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the stripling died,) 
Lies gathered to his father's side. 

Soul-moving sight! 
Yet one to which is not denied 65 

Some sad delight: 

For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath early found among the dead. 

Harbored where none can be misled, 

Wronged, or distressed; 70 

And surely here it may be said 

That such are blest. 

And oh! for thee, by pitying grace 
Checked oft-times in a devious race. 
May He who halloweth the place 75 

Where man is laid 
Receive thy spirit in the embrace 

For which it prayed! 

Sighing I turned away; but ere 

Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 8c 

Music that sorrow comes not near, 

A ritual hymn, 
Chaunted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim. 



THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass! 



410 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Alone she cuts and binds the grain 5 
And sings a melancholy strain; 
Oh listen! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 10 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands: 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird 
Breaking the silence of the seas 15 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? — 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
And battles long ago: 20 

Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
That has been, and may be again? 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 25 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 
I listened, motionless and still; 
And, as I mounted up the hill, 30 

The music in my heart I bore, 
Long after it was heard no more. 



TO THE CUCKOO 

blithe New-comer! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass = 

Thy twofold shout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale. 
Of sunshine and of flowers, ic 

Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! 
Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, i- 

A voice, a mystery; 



The same whom in my school-boy days 
I listened to; that Cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 20 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 25 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 30 

An unsubstantial faery place, 
That is fit home for thee! 

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 5 

Like twihght's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To Jiaunt, to startle, and way-lay. 10 

I saw her upon nearer view, 
A spirit, yet a woman too! 
Her household motions light and free, 
And steps of virgin-liberty; 
A countenance in which did meet 15 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food; 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and 
smiles. 20 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveller between life and death; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 

A perfect woman, nobly planned. 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light. 30 



WORDSWORTH 



411 



I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 5 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way. 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 10 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay 15 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed— and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 20 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills. 

And dances with the daffodils. 



ODE TO DUTY 

Stem Daughter of the Voice of God! 
O Duty! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove; 
Thou, who art victory and law 5 

When empty terrors overawe; 
From vain temptations dost set free; 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail hu- 
manity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them; who, in love and truth, 10 

Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth: 
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot 
Who do thy work, and know it not: 
Oh! if through confidence misplaced 15 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! 
around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be, 

When love is an unerring light. 

And joy its own security. 20 



And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed; 
Yet seek thy firm support, according to 
their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried; 25 

No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust: 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 

The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, 
if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control; 35 

But in the quietness of thought: 

Me this unchartered freedom tires; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires: 

My hopes no more must change their 

name; 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face: 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 45 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through 
thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power! 
I call thee: I myself commend 50 

Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacrifice; 
The confidence of reason give; 55 

And in the light of truth thy bondman let 
me live! 

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY 
WARRIOR 

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be? 
It is the generous Spirit, who, when 

brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish 

thought: 5 



412 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always 

bright : 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent 

to learn; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not 

there, lo 

But makes his moral being his prime care; 
Who, doomed to go in company with 

Pain, 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable 

train ! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 15 
Which is our human nature's highest 

dower; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, 

bereaves. 
Of their bad influence, and their good re- 
ceives; 
By objects, which might force the soul to 

abate 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 
Is placable — because occasions rise 21 

So often that demand such sacrifice; 
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more 

pure, 
As tempted more; more able to endure, 
As more exposed to suffering and dis- 
tress; 25 
Thence, also more alive to tenderness. 
'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends; 
Whence, in a state where men are tempted 

still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30 
And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows; 
Who, if he rise to station of command, 35 
Rises by open means; and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire. 
And in himself possess his own desire; 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the 

same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 40 
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in 

wait 
For wealth or honors, or for worldly state; 
Whom they must follow; on whose head 

must fall. 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all: 



Whose powers shed round him in the com- 
mon strife, 45 
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
A constant influence, a peculiar grace; 
But who, if he be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven has 

joined 
Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
Is happy as a lover; and attired 51 

With sudden brightness, like a man in- 
spired; • 
And, through the heat of conflict keeps the 

law 
In calmness made, and sees what he fore- 
saw; 
Or if an unexpected call succeed, 55 

Come when it will, is equal to the need: 
He who though thus endued as with a sense 
And faculty for storm and turbulence. 
Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans 
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle 
scenes; 60 

Sweet iiuages! which, wheresoe'er he be. 
Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve; 
More brave for this that he hath much to 

love: — 
'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high 65 
Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, 
Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, 
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
Where what he most doth value must be 
won: 71 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray; 
Who, not content that former worth stand 

fast. 
Looks forward, persevering to the last, 75 
From well to laetter, daily self-surpassed: 
Who, whether praise of him must walk the 

earth 
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he must fall to sleep without his fame. 
And leave a dead unprofitable name. So 
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; 
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, 

draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's ap- 
plause: 
This is the happy Warrior; this is he 
Whom every man in arms should wish to 
be. 8s 



WORDSWORTH 



413 



ODE 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 
FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
EARLY CHILDHOOD 

" The child is father of the man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety." 



There was a time when meadow, grove 

and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight. 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5 
It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can 
see no more. 

II 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 10 
And lovely is the Rose; 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are 
bare; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair; 15 

The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from 
the earth. 

in 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
song, 
And while the young lambs bound 20 
As to the tabor's sound, 

To me alone there came a thought of 
grief; 

A timely utterance gave that thought re- 
lief, 
And I again am strong : 

The cataracts -blow their trumpets from 
the steep; 25 

No more shall grief of mine the season 
wrong ; 

I hear the echoes through the mountains 
throng. 



The winds come to me from the fields of 
sleep, 
And all the earth is gay; 

Land and sea 30 

Give themselves up to jollity. 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
Thou child of joy. 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
thou happy shepherd-boy Is 5 



IV 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubi- 
lee: 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal, 40 

The fullness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it 
all. 
Oh evil day! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the children are culling 45 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines 
warm. 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's 
arm: — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50 
— But there's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is 
gone: 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 55 

Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
The Soul that rises \dth us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 
And Cometh from afar: 

Not in entire forgetfulness. 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 65 

Heaven Ues about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
Upon the gro^ving boy, 



414 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



But he beholds the light, and whence it 
flows, 

He sees it in his joy; 70 

The youth, who daily farther from the 
east 

Must travel, still is Nature's priest. 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 75 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her 

own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural 

kind. 
And, even with something of a mother's 
mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 80 

The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he 



came. 



VII 



Behold the Child among his new-born 
bUsses, 85 

A six years' darling of a pigmy size! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he 

Ues, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With hght upon him from his father's 

eyes! 
See, at his feet, some Httle plan or chart, 90 
Some fragment from his dream of human 

life. 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart, 95 
And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
But it will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside, 100 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his "humorous 

stage" 
With all the persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 
As if his whole vocation 106 

Were endless imitation. 



VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost 

keep no 

Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal 

deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
Mighty prophet! Seer blest! 
On whom those truths do rest, 115 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the 

grave; 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by; 120 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's 

height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou 

provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus bUndly with thy blessedness at 

strife? 125 

Full soon thy Soiil shall have her earthly 

freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as Ufe! 

EX 

joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 130 

That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me doth 

breed 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be 
blest — 135 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
breast : — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise; 140 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realised, 145 
High instincts before which our mortal 
nature 



WORDSWORTH 



415 



Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 

But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 150 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to 

make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 

To perish never; 156 

Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 
deavor, 

Nor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 160 

Hence in a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither, 165 
An'd see the children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- 
more. 



Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous 
song! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! 170 

We in thought will join your throng. 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May! 

What though the radiance which was once 
so bright 175 

Be now forever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the 
hour 

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
flower ; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind; 180 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be ; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering; 184 

In the faith that looks through death, 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI 

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and 

groves. 
Forebode not any severing of our loves! 



Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight 190 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their chan- 
nels fret. 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as 
they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
Is lovely yet; 195 

The clouds that gather round the setting 
sun 

Do take a sober coloring from an eye 

That hath kept watch o'er man's mor- 
tality; 

Another race hath been, and other palms 
are won. 

Thanks to the human heart by which we 
live, 200 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 

To me the meanest flower that blows can 
give 

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 
tears. 

TO A SKY-LARK 

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares 

abound? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and 

eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at 

will, ^ ^ _ 5 

i Those quivering wings composed, that 
j music still! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 

A privacy of glorious Ught is thine; 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a 
j flood 

' Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 10 

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
j True to the kindred points of Heaven and 
I Home! 

I SONNETS 

; ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE 
VENETIAN REPUBLIC 

Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee; 
And was the safeguard of the west: the 

worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 



4i6 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. 

She was a maiden city, bright and free; 5 

No guile seduced, no force could violate; 

And, when she took unto herself a mate, 

She must espouse the everlasting sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories 
fade, 

Those titles vanish, and that strength de- 
cay; 10 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reached its final 
day: 

Men are we, and must grieve when even 
the shade 

Of that which once was great is passed 
away. 



LONDON, 1802 

Milton! thou should'st be living at this 

hour: 
England hath need of thee: she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and 

bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English 

dower 5 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, 

power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like 

the sea: 10 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way. 
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802 

Earth has not anything to show more 

fair: 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty: 
This city now doth, like a garment, wear 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 5 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and tem- 
ples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 



All bright and glittering in the smokeless 

air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! n 
The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still! 



ON THE SEA-SHORE NEAR CALAIS 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er 

the Sea: 5 

Listen! the mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. , 
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with 

me here. 
If thou appear untouched by solemn 

thought, 10 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the 

year; 
And worship 'st at the temple's inner 

shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH 
US 

The world is too much with us: late and 

soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid 

boon! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the 

moon; s 

The winds that will be howling at all 

hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping 

flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of 

tune; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 10 



COLERIDGE 



417 



So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less 

forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men! 
Whether the whistling rustic tend his 

plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless 

den; 
O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 5 
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not! do 

thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left 

behind 
Powers that will work for thee, air, earth, 

and skies: 10 

There's not a breathing of the common 

wind 
That will forget thee; thou hast great 

allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

(1772-1834) 

FRANCE: AN ODE 
I 

Ye Clouds! that far above me float and 

pause. 
Whose pathless march no mortal may 

control! 
Ye Ocean Waves! that, whereso'er ye 

roll. 
Yield homage only to eternal laws! 
Ye Woods! that listen to the night-bird's 

singing, 5 

Midway the smooth and perilous slope 

reclined. 
Save when your own imperious branches 

swinging. 
Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
Where, like a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman 

trod, 10 



How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I 
wound, 

Inspired beyond the guess of folly, 
By each rude shape and wild imconquer- 

able sound! 

ye loud Waves! and ye Forests high! 15 
And ye Clouds that far above me 

soared! 
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! 
Yea, every thing that is and will be 

free! 
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. 
With what deep worship I have still 
adored 20 

The spirit of divinest Liberty. 

n 

When France in wrath her giant-limbs up- 
reared. 
And with that oath which smote air, 

earth and sea, 
Stamped her strong foot and said she 
would be free, 
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and 
feared! 25 

With what a joy my lofty gratulation 

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: 
And when to whelm the disenchanted 
nation. 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's 
wand, 
The Monarchs marched in evil day, 30 
And Britain joined the dire array; 
Though dear her shores and circling 
ocean, 
Though many friendships, many youthful 
loves 
Had swoln the patriot emotion 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills 
and groves; 35 

Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 
To all that braved the tyrant-quelling 
lance. 
And shame too long delayed and vain 

retreat ! 
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim 

1 dimmed thy light or damped thy holy 

flame; 40 

' But blessed the paeans of delivered 

France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's 
I name. 



4i8 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



III 

•'And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's 
loud scream 
With that sweet music of deliverance 

strove! 
Though all the fierce and drunken 
passions wove 45 

A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's 
dream! 
Ye storms, that round the dawning 
east assembled. 
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his 
light!" 
And when to soothe my soul, that hoped 
and trembled, 
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed 
calm and bright; 50 

When France her front deep-scarred 

and gory 
Concealed with clustering wreaths of 
glory; 
When, insupportably advancing. 
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's 
ramp; 
While timid looks of fury glancing, 55 
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her 
fatal stamp, 
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his 
gore; 
Then I reproached my fears that would 
not flee; 
"And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach 

her lore 
In the low huts of them that toil and 
groan ; 60 

And, conquering by her happiness alone. 
Shall France compel the nations to 
be free, 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call 
the earth their own." 

IV 

Forgive me. Freedom! Oh forgive those 
dreams! 
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 
From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns 
sent — 66 

I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained 
streams ! 
Heroes, that for your peaceful country 
perished. 
And ye, that fleeing, spot your mountain 



With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that 
I cherished 70 

One thought that ever blessed your cruel 
foes! 
To scatter rage and traitorous guilt 
Where Peace her jealous home had built; 
A patriot-race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so 
dear; 75 

And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the 

mountaineer — 
O France, that mockest Heaven, adul- 
terous, blind. 
And patriot only in pernicious toils! 
Are these thy boasts, Champion of 
human kind? 80 

To mix with Kings in the low lust of 
sway. 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous 

.prey; 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
From freemen torn; to tempt and to 
betray? 



The Sensual and the Dark rebel in 

vain, 85 

Slaves by their own compulsion! In 

mad game 
They burst their manacles and wear the 
name 
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier 
chain ! 
O Liberty! with profitless endeavor 
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 
But thou nor swell'st the victor's 
strain, nor ever 91 

Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human 
power. 
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name de- 
lays thee) 
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 95 
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. 

Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
The guide of homeless winds, and play- 
mate of the waves! 
And there I felt thee! — on that sea-cliff's 
verge. 
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the 
breeze above, 100 

Had made one murmur with the distant 
surge! 



COLERIDGE 



419 



Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples 

bare, 
And shot my being through earth, sea, and 

air. 
Possessing all things with intensest love, 

O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 105 



KUBLA KHAN: OR, A VISION IN A 
DREAM 

A FRAGMENT 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 
Down to a sunless sea. 5 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 
And there were gardens bright with 

sinuous rills. 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing 

tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills. 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 11 

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which 

slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn 

cover! 
A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was 

haunted 15 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless 

turmoil seething, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were 

breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding 

hail, 21 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's 

flail: 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and 

ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy mo- 
tion 25 
Through wood and dale the sacred river 

ran, 
Then reached the caverns measureless to 

man, 



And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from 

far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves; 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 35 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of 
ice! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid. 

And on her dulcimer she played, 40 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win 
me, 
That with music loud and long, 45 

I w^ould build that dome in air. 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there, — 
And all should cry. Beware! Beware! — 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 50 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 
MARINER 

IN SEVEN PARTS 

Part I 



It is an ancient Mariner, 



An ancient Mar- 
, - iner meeteth three 

And he Stoppeth one 01 Gallants bidden to 
three. ' weddin.-feast. 



"By thy long gray beard 
and glittering eye. 

Now wherefore stopp'st 
thou me? 

"The Bridegroom's doors 
are opened wide, 5 

And I am next of kin; 

The guests are met, the 
feast is set : 

May'st hear the merry din." 



and detaineth one. 



420 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



He holds him with his 

skinny hand, 
"There was a ship," quoth 

he. lo 

"Hold ofif! unhand me, 

graybeard loon!" 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 



Guest k spell- He holds him with his 



glittering eye — 



bound by the eye 
of the old seafaring 

man, and con- The wedding-guest stood 

strained to hear ,.,i ° 

his tale. Stlil, 

And listens Hke a three 

years' child: 15 

• The Mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on 

a stone: 
He cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that 

ancient man. 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 20 

"The ship was cheered, 
the harbor cleared. 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the 
hill. 

Below the lighthouse top. 



The Mariner tells 
how the ship sailed 
southward with a 
good wind and fair 
weather till it 
reached the Line. 



The Wedding- 
Guest heareth the 
bridal music; but 
the Mariner con- 
tinueth his tale. 



"The sun came up upon 
the left, 25 

Out of the sea came he! 

And he shone bright, and 
on the right 

Went down into the sea. 

"Higher and higher every 

day. 
Till over the mast at 

noon — " 30 

The wedding-guest here 

beat his breast. 
For he heard the loud 

bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into 
the hall. 

Red as a rose is she; 

Nodding their heads be- 
fore her goes 35 

The merry minstrelsy. 



The ship driven by 
a storm toward the 
south pole. 



The wedding-guest he beat 

his breast. 
Yet he cannot choose but 

hear; 
And thus spake on that 

ancient man. 
The bright-eyed Mariner: 

"And now the storm-blast 
came, and he 41 

Was tyrannous and strong: 

He struck with his o'ertak- 
ing wings. 

And chased us south along. 

"With sloping masts and 

dipping prow, 45 

As who pursued with yell 

and blow 
Still treads the shadow of 

his foe. 
And forward bends his head, 
The ship drove fast, loud 

roared the blast, 
And southward aye we 

fled. 50 



"And now there came both 

mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold; 
And ice, mast-high, came 

floating by. 
As green as emerald; 

" And through the drifts the The land of ice, 

i.j-. and of fearful 

snowy cults 55 sounds where no 

Did send a dismal sheen: b™n.^'°^ ""^^ *° 
Nor shapes of men nor 

beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 

"The ice was here, the ice 

was there. 
The ice was all around : 60 
It cracked and growled, 

and roared and howled. 
Like noises in a swound! 



"At length did cross an 

Albatross: 
Thorough the fog it came: 
As if it had been a Christian 

soul, 65 

We hailed it in God's 

name. 



Till a great sea- 
bird, called the 
Albatross. came 
through the snow- 
fog, and was re- 
ceived with great 
joy and hospital- 
ity. 



COLERIDGE 



421 



And lo! the Alba- 
tross proveth a 
bird of good omen, 
and foUoweth the 
ship as it returned 
northward through 
fog and floating 



"It ate the food it ne'er 

had eat, 
And round and round it 

flew. 
The ice did split with a 

thunder-fit; 
The helmsman steered us 

through! 70 

"And a good south wind 
sprung up behind; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or 
play. 

Came to the mariners' 
hollo! 

"In mist or cloud, on mast 
or shroud, 75 

It perched for vespers nine; 

Whiles all the night, 
through fog-smoke 
white, 

Glimmered the white moon- 
shine." 



God save thee, ancient 
Mariner ! 
kiiieth the" pious Yrora the fiends, that plague 

bird of good omen. ' r- o 

thee thus! — 80 

Why look'st thou so?"— 

"With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross!" 

Part II 

"The sun now rose upon 

the right: 
Out of the sea came he, 
Still hid in mist, and on the 

left 85 

Went down into the sea. 

"And the good south wind 

still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did 

follow, 
Nor any day, for food or 

play, 
Came to the mariners' 

hollo ! 90 



The ancient Mar- 
iner inhospitably 



"And I had done a hellish 
thing, 

"em 



His shipmates cry 
out against the an- 
cient Mariner for 

killing the bird of ^ud it would work 

good luck. 

woe ; 



For all averred, I had 

killed the bird 
That made the breeze to 

blow. 
Ah wretch! said they, the 

bird to slay 95 

That made the breeze to 

blow! 

"Nor dim nor red, like 

God's own head, 
The glorious sun uprist: 
Then all averred, I had 

killed the bird 
That brought the fog and 

mist. 100 

'Twas right, said they, such 

birds to slay, 
That bring the fog and mist. 

"The fair breeze blew, the 
white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free: 

We were the first that ever 
burst 105 

Into that silent sea. 



But when the fog 
cleared off, they 
justify the same, 
and thus make 
themselves accom- 
plices in the crime. 



The fair breeze 
continues; the ship 
enters the Pacific 
Ocean, and sails 
northward, even 
till it reaches the 
Line. 



"Down dropt the breeze. The ship hath been 
the SaUs dropt down, suddenly becalmed. 

'Twas sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to 

break 
The silence of the sea ! no 

"All in a hot and copper 

sky, 
The bloody sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast 

did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

"Day after day, day after 

day, 115 

We stuck, nor breath nor 

motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

"Water, water, everyAvhere, And the Albatross 
And all the boards did avenged. 

shrink; 120 

Water, water, evervnvhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 



422 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



A Spirit had fol- 
lowed them; one 
of the invisible in- 
habitants of this 
planet, neither de- 
parted souls nor 
angels. 



The shipmates, in 
their sore distress, 
would fain throw 
the whole guilt on 
the ancient Mar- 
iner: in sign 
whereof they hang 
the dead seabird 
round his neck. 



The ancient Mar- 
iner beholdeth a 
sign in the element 
afar off. 



"The very deep did rot: 

O Christ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl 

with legs 125 

Upon the slimy sea. 

''About, about, in reel and 

rout. 
The death-fires danced at 

night; 
The water, like a witch's 

oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and 

white. 130 

"And some in dreams as- 
sured were 

Of the spirit that plagued 
us so: 

Nine fathom deep he had 
followed us, 

From the land of mist and 
snow. 

" And every tongue, through 
utter drought, 135 

Was withered at the root; 

We could not speak, no 
more than if 

We had been choked with 
soot. 

"Ah! well-a-day! what evil 

looks 
Had I from old and young! 
Instead of the cross, the 

Albatross 141 

About my neck was hung. 

Part III 

"There passed a weary 

time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed 

each eye. 
A weary time! A weary 

time! 145 

How glazed each weary 

eye! 
When looking westward I 

beheld 
A something in the sky. 



At its nearer ap- 
proach, it seemeth 
him to be a ship; 
and at a dear ran- 
som he freeth his 
speech from the 
bonds of thirst. 



"At first it seemed a little 

speck. 
And then it seemed a mist: 
It moved and moved, and 

took at last 151 

A certain shape, I wist. 

"A speck, a mist, a shape, 
I wist! 

And still it neared and 
neared : 

As if it dodged a water- 
sprite, 15s 

It plunged and tacked and 
veered. 

"With throats unslaked, 

with black lips baked. 
We could nor laugh nor 

wail; 
Through utter drought all 

dumb we stood! 
I bit my arm, I sucked the 

blood, 160 

And cried, 'A sail! a sail!' 

"With throats unslaked, 
with black lips baked, 

Agape they heard me call: 

Gramercy! they for joy did 
grin. 

And all at once their breath 
drew in, 165 

As they were drinking all. 



"'See! see (I cried) she ^, ^pTLn't 
tacks no more! be a ship that 

^^. , , , comes onward with- 

Hither to work us weal; out wind or tide? 
Without a breeze, without 

a tide, 
She steadies with upright 

keel!' 170 

"The western wave was all 

a-flame : 
The day was well nigh done: 
Almost upon the western 

wave 
Rested the broad bright 

sun; 
When that strange shape 

drove suddenly 175 
Betwixt us and the sun. 



A flash of joy; 



COLERIDGE 



423 



It seemeth him 
but the skeleton of 
a ship. 



"And straight the sun was 

flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us 

grace!) 
As if through a dungeon 

grate he peered, 
With broad and burning 

face. 180 

"Alas! (thought I, and my 
heart beat loud) 

How fast she nears and 
nears ! 

Are those her sails that 
glance in the sun, 

Like restless gossameres? 

"Are those her ribs through 

which the sun 185 

Did peer, as through a 

grate? 
And is that Woman all her 

crew? 
Is that a Death? and are 

there two? 
Is Death that woman's 

mate? 

"Her lips were red, her 

looks were free, 190 
Her locks were yellow as 

gold: 
Her skin was as white as 

leprosy, 
The nightmare Life-in- 

Death was she. 
Who thicks man's blood 

with cold. 



Death and Life-in- ((ryii i j t_ n i • i 

Death have diced Ihe naked hulk alongside 

for the ship's crew, rcsmp t,^- 

and she (the lat- Came, ^ IQi 

ter) winneth the And the twam Were casting 
dice; 
'The game is done! I've 

won, I've won!' 
Quoth she, and whistles 
thrice. 



And its ribs are 
seen as bars on the 
face of the setting 
sun. 



The Spectre- 
Woman and her 
Death -mate, and 
no other on board 
the skeleton-ship. 



Like vessel, like 
crew! 



ancient Mariner. 



No twilight within 
the courts of the 
sun. 



the 



the 



"The sun's rim dips; 

stars rush out: 
At one stride comes 

dark; 200 

With far-heard whisper, 

o'er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 



"We listened and looked 

sideways up! 
Fear at my heart, as at a 

cup. 
My life-blood seemed to 

sip! 205 

The stars were dim, and 

thick the night. 
The steersman's face by his 

lamp gleamed white ; 
From the sails the dew did 

drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern 

bar 
The horned moon, with one 

bright star 210 

Within the nether tip. 

" One after one, by the star- 
dogged moon, 

Too quick for groan or 
sigh, 

Each turned his face with 
a ghastly pang. 

And cursed me with his 
eye. 215 

"Four times fifty living 
men, 

(And I heard nor sigh nor 
groan) 

With heavy thump, a life- 
less lump, 

They dropped down one 
by one. 

"The souls did from their 
bodies fly, — 220 

They fled to bliss or woe! 

And every soul, it passed 
me by, 

Like the whizz of my cross- 
bow!" 

Part IV 

"I fear thee, ancient Mar- 
iner! 

I fear thy skinny hand! 225 

And thou art long, and 
lank, and brown. 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 

"I fear thee and thy glitter- 
ing eye, _ 

And thy skinny hand, so 
brown." — 



At the rising of the 
moon, 



One after another. 



His shipmates drop 
down dead. 



But Life-in-Death 
begins her work on 
the ancient Mar- 
iner. 



The Wedding- 
Guest feareth that 
a spirit Ls talking to 
him; 



424 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



But the ancient '' Pgar not, fear not, thou 

Manner assureth it . 

him of his bodily Wedding-gUeSt I 230 

eth to^'reFate"! This body dropt nOt doWIl. 
horrible penance. 

"Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
And never a saint took 

pity on 
My soul in agony. 235 

He despiseth the ''The many men, so beau- 
creatures of the , -r 1 • 
calm, tlful! 

And they all dead did lie: 
And a thousand thousand 

slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 

And envieth that "I looked upon the rotting 

they should live, 

and so many be Sea, 240 

^^^- And drew my eyes away ; 

I looked upon the rotting 

deck. 
And there the dead men 

lay. 

"I looked to heaven, and 
tried to pray; 

But or ever a prayer had 
gusht, _ 245 

A wicked whisper came, and 
made 

My heart as dry as dust. 

" I closed my lids, and kept 

them close. 
And the balls Hke pulses 

beat; 
For the sky and the sea, 

and the sea and the 

sky, 250 

Lay like a load on my weary 

eye. 
And the dead were at my 

feet. 

"The cold sweat melted 
from their limbs, 

Nor rot nor reek did they: 

The look with which they 
looked on me 255 

Had never passed away. 

"An orphan's curse would 

drag to hell 
A spirit from on high; 



But the curse liv- 
eth for him in the 
eye of the dead 
men. 



But oh! more horrible than 

that 
Is the curse in a dead man's 

eye! 260 

Seven days, seven nights, I 

saw that curse, 
And yet I could not die. 

"The moving moon went 

up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide: 
Softly she was going up, 265 
And a star or two beside — 

"Her beams bemocked the 

sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge 

shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt 

alway 270 

A still and awful red. 

"Beyond the shadow of 

the ship, 
I watched the water-snakes: 
They moved in tracks of 

shining white. 
And when they reared, the 

elfish light 275 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

"Within the shadow of 

the ship 
I watched their rich attire: 
Blue, glossy green, and 

velvet black. 
They coiled and swam; 

and every track 280 
Was a flash of golden fire. 



In his loneliness 
and fixedness he 
yeameth towards 
the journeying 
moon, and the stars 
that still sojourn, 
yet still move on- 
ward; and everj'- 
where the blue sky 
belongs to them, 
and is their ap- 
pointed rest, and 
their native coun- 
try and their own 
natural homes, 
which they enter 
unannounced, as 
lords that are cer- 
tainly expected; 
and yet there is a 
silent joy at their 
arrival. 

By the light of the 
moon he beholdeth 
God's creatures of 
the great calm. 



o 



things ! 



happy living 
no tongue 

Their beauty might declare: 

A spring of love gushed 
from my heart, 

And I blessed them un- 
aware! 285 

Sure my kind saint took 
pity on me. 

And I blessed them un- 
aware. 

"The selfsame moment I 

could pray; 
And from my neck so free 



Their beauty and 
their happiness. 



He blesseth them 
in his heart. 



The spell begins to 
break. 



COLERIDGE 



425 



The Albatross fell off, and 
sank 290 

Like lead into the sea. 



/ 



Part V 



/ 



By grace of the 
Holy Mother, the 
ancient Mariner is 
refreshed with rain. 



"Oh sleep! it is a gentle 

thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole! 
To Mary Queen the praise 

be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep 

from Heaven, 295 

That slid into my soul. 

"The silly buckets on the 

deck, 
That had so long remained, 
I dreamt that they were 

filled with dew; 
And when I awoke, it 

rained. 300 

"My lips were wet, my 

throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 
Sure I had drunken in my 

dreams. 
And still my body drank. 

"I moved, and could not 
feel my limbs: 305 

I was so light — almost 

I thought that I had died 
in sleep. 

And was a blessed ghost. 



'And soon I heard a roar- 
ing wind: 



He heareth sounds 
and seeth strange 
sights and commo- 
tions in the sky j^ did uot comc aucar; 310 

and the element. t-,^ •jI-.l a -^ -x i 

But With its sound it shook 

the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 

"The upper air burst into 
life! 

And a hundred fire-flags 
sheen. 

To and fro they were hur- 
ried about; 315 

And to and fro, and in and 
out. 

The wan stars danced be- 
tween. 



"And the coming wind did 

roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh Uke 

sedge ; 
And the rain poured down 

from, one black cloud; 
The moon was at its edge. 

"The thick black cloud was 
cleft, and still 322 

The moon was at its side: 

Like waters shot from some 
high crag, 

The lightning fell with 
never a jag, 325 

A river steep and wide. 

"The loud wind never 
reached the ship, 

Yet now the ship moved on! 

Beneath the lightning and 
the moon 

The dead men gave a groan. 

"They groaned, they stirred, 

they all uprose, 331 
Nor spake, nor moved their 

eyes; 
It had been strange, even 

in a dream. 
To have seen those dead 

men rise. 

"The helmsman steered, 

the ship moved on; 335 
Yet never a breeze up-blew; 
The mariners all 'gan work 

the ropes, 
Where they were wont to 

do: 
They raised their limbs 

like lifeless tools — ' 
We were a ghastly crew. 

"The body of my brother's 
son 341 

Stood by me, knee to knee: 

The body and I pulled at 
one rope, 

But he said nought to me." 

"I fear thee, ancient Mar- 
iner!" 345 

"Be calm, thou Wedding- 
Guest ! 



The bodies of the 
ship's crew are in- 
spired, and the 
ship moves on; 



426 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



But not by the 
souls of the men, 
nor by demons of 
earth or middle 
air, but by a 
blessed troop of 
angelic spirits, sent 
down by the in- 
vocation of the 
guardian saint. 



'Twas not those souls that 

fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came 

again, 
But a troop of spirits blest: 

"For when it dawned — 
they dropped their 
arms, 350 

And clustered round the 
mast; 

Sweet sounds rose slowly 
through their mouths, 

And from their bodies 
passed. 

"Around, around, flew each 

sweet sound, 
Then darted to the sun; 355 
Slowly the sounds came 

back again. 
Now mixed, now one by 

one. 

" Sometimes a-dropping 

from the sky 
I heard the skylark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds 

that are, 360 

How they seemed to fill 

the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

"And now 'twas like all 

instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute; 
And now it is an angel's 

song, 365 

That makes the heavens be 
^ mute. 

"It ceased; yet still the 

' sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a hidden 

brook 
In the leafy month of 

June, 370 

That to the sleeping woods 

all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

"Till noon we quietly sailed 

on, 
Yet never a breeze did 
breathe: 



Slowly and smoothly went 
the ship, 375 

Moved onward from be- 
neath. 

"Under the keel nine 

fathom deep. 
From the land of mist and 

snow. 
The spirit slid; and it was 

he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off 

their tune, 381 

And the ship stood still 

also. 

"The sun, right up above 
the mast. 

Had fixed her to the ocean; 

But in a minute she 'gan 
stir, 38s 

With a short uneasy mo- 
tion — 

Backwards and forwards 
half her length, 

With a short uneasy mo- 
tion. 

"Then like a pawing horse 

let go. 
She made a sudden bound: 
It flung the blood into my 

head, 391 

And I fell down in a swound. 

"How long in that same fit 

I lay, 
I have not to declare; 
But ere my living life 

returned, 395 

I heard, and in my soul 

discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

"'Is it he?' quoth one, 
'is this the man? 

By Him who died on cross, 

With his cruel bow he laid 
full low 400 

The harmless Albatross. 

"'The spirit who bideth 

by himself 
In the land of mist and 

snow, 



The lonesome 

Spirit from the 
south pole carries 
on the ship as far 
as the Line, in 
obedience to the 
angelic troop, but 
still requireth ven- 
geance. 



The Polar Spirit's 
fellow-demons, the 
invisible inhabit- 
ants of the element, 
take part in his 
wrong, and two of 
them relate, one 
to the other, that 
penance long and 
heavy for the an- 
cient Mariner hath 
been accorded to 
the Polar Spirit, 
who retumetb 

southward. 



COLERIDGE 



427 



The Mariner hath 
been cast into a 
trance; for the an- 
gelic power causeth 
the ve;-;el to drive 
northward faster 
than human life 
could endure. 



He loved the bird that 

loved the man 
Who shot him with his 

bow.' 405 

"The other was a softer 

voice, 
As soft as honey-dew: 
Quoth he, 'The man hath 

penance done, 
And penance more will do.' 

Part VI 
First Voice 

"'But tell me, tell me! 
speak again, 410 

Thy soft response renew- 
ing— 

What makes that ship drive 
on so fast? 

What is the ocean doing?' 

Second Voice 

"'Still as a slave before 

his lord, 
The ocean hath no blast; 
His great bright eye most 

silently 416 

Up to the moon is cast — 

"'If he may know which 
way to go; 

For she guides him, smooth 
or grim. 

See, brother, see! how gra- 
ciously 420 

She looketh down on him.' 

First Voice 

"'But why drives on that 

ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind? ' 

Second Voice 

"'The air is cut away 

before, 
And closes from behind. 

"'Fly, brother, fly! more 
high, more high! 426 

Or we shall be belated: 

For slow and slow that ship 
will go. 

When the Mariner's trance 
is abated.' 



"I woke, and we were "^^f. supernatural 

' motion IS retarded; 

Sailmg on, 430 the Mariner 

As in a gentle weather: plnan^e ^"begi^ 

'Twas night, calm night, ^^^• 

the moon was high; 
The dead men stood to- 
gether. 

"All stood together on the 

deck. 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
All fixed on me their stony 

eyes, _ _ 436 

That in the moon did glitter. 

"The pang, the curse, with 

which they died. 
Had never passed away: 
I could not draw my eyes 

from theirs, 440 

Nor turn them up to pray, 

"And now this spell was The cu^e is finaUy 
^ expiated. 

snapt: once more 
I viewed the ocean green, 
And looked far forth, yet 

little saw 
Of what had else been seen — 

"Like one, that on a lone- 
some road 446 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned 
round, walks on. 

And turns no more his 
head; 

Because he knows a fright- 
ful fiend 45° 

Doth close behind him 
tread, 

"But soon there breathed 

a wind on me. 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the 

sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 455 

"It raised my hair, it 

fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of 

spring — 
It mingled strangely with 

my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 



428 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And the ancient 
Mariner beholdeth 
his native country. 



The angelic spirits 
leave the dead 
bodies. 



And appear in their 
own forms of light. 



"Swiftly, swiftly flew the 
ship, 460 

Yet she sailed softly too: 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the 
breeze — 

On me alone it blew. 

"Oh! dream of joy! is this 

indeed 
The lighthouse top I see? 
Is this the hill? is this the 

kirk? 466 

Is this mine own countree? 

"We drifted o'er the harbor- 
bar. 

And I with sobs did pray — 

'O let me be awake, my 
God! 470 

Or let me sleep alway.' 

"The harbor-bay was clear 
as glass, 

So smoothly it was strewn! 

And on the bay the moon- 
light lay. 

And the shadow of the 
moon. 475 

"The rock shone bright, 

the kirk no less. 
That stands above the rock: 
The moonlight steeped in 

silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

"And the bay was white 
with silent light, 480 

Till rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that 
shadows were, 

In crimson colors came. 

"A little distance from the 

prow 
Those crimson shadows 

were: 485 

I turned my eyes upon the 

deck — 
Oh, Christ! what saw I 

there ! 

"Each corse lay flat, life- 
less and flat. 

And, by the holy rood! 

A man all light, a seraph- 
man, 490 

On every corse there stood. 



"This seraph-band, each 

waved his hand: 
It was a heavenly sight! 
They stood as signals to 

the land. 
Each one a lovely light: 

"This seraph-band, each 
waved his hand, 496 

No voice did they impart — 

No voice; but oh! the 
silence sank 

Like music on my heart. 

"But soon I heard the 
dash of oars, 500 

I heard the pilot's cheer; 

My head was turned per- 
force away. 

And I saw a boat appear. 

"The pilot, and the pilot's 

boy, 
I heard them coming fast: 
Dear Lord ih Heaven! it 

was a joy 506 

The dead men could not 

blast. 

" I saw a third — I heard his 

voice : 
It is the Hermit good! 
He singeth loud his godly 

hymns 510 

That he makes in the wood. 
He'll shrieve my soul, he'll 

wash away 
The Albatross's blood. 

Part VII 

"This Hermit good lives 

in that wood 
Which slopes down to the 

sea. 515 

How loudly his sweet voice 

he rears! 
He loves to talk with mari- 

neres 
That come from a far 

countree. 

"He kneels at morn, and 

noon, and eve — 
He hath a cushion plump: 



The Hermit of the 
wood. 



COLERIDGE 



429 



It is the moss that wholly 

hides 521 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

"The skiff-boat neared: I 
heard them talk, 

'Why, this is strange, I 
trow! 

Where are those lights so 
many and fair, "525 

That signal made but now? ' 

Approacheth the '"Strange, by my faith!' 
ship with wonder. ^^^ Hermit said— 

' And they answered not our 

cheer! 
The planks look warped! 

and see those sails. 
How thin they are and sere! 
I never saw aught like to 

them, 531 

Unless perchance it were 



" ' Brown skeletons of 

leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along: 
When the ivy-tod is heavy 

with snow, 535 

And the owlet whoops to 

the wolf below. 
That eats the she-wolf's 

young.' 

"'Dear Lord! it hath a 

fiendish look' — 
(The pilot made reply) 
'I am a- feared' — 'Push on, 

push on!' 540 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

"The boat came closer to 
the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred; 

The boat came close be- 
neath the ship, 

And straight a sound was 
heard. 545 

"Under the water it rum- 
bled on, 

Still louder and more dread: 

It reached the ship, it 
split the bay; 

The ship went down like 
lead. 



The ship suddenly 
sinketh. 



"Stunned by that loud and 
dreadful sound, 550 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been 
seven days drowned, 

My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams, my- 
self I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 555 

"Upon the whirl, where 

sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and 

round ; 
And all was still, save that 

the hill 
Was telling of the soimd. 

"I moved my lips — the 
pilot shrieked, 560 

And fell down in a fit; 

The holy Hermit raised his 
eyes, 

And prayed where he did 
sit. 

"I took the oars: the pilot's 

boy. 
Who now doth crazy go, 
Laughed loud and long, 

and all the while 566 
His eyes went to and fro. 
'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full 

plain I see. 
The Devil knows how to 

row.' 

"And now, all in my own 
countree, 570 

I stood on the firm land! 

The Hermit stepped forth 
from the boat. 

And scarcely he could stand. 

"'0 shrieve me, shrieve me, 

holy man!' 
The Hermit crossed his 

brow. 575 

'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I 

bid thee say — 
What manner of man art 

thou?' 



The ancient Mar- 
iner is saved in 
the Pilot's boat. 



The ancient Mar- 
iner earnestly en- 
treateth the Her- 
mit to shrieve him; 
and the penance of 
life falls on him. 



"Forthwith this frame 
mine was wrenched 
With a woeful agony, 



of 



43° 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Which forced me to begin 
my tale; 580 

And then it left me free. 



an uncer- 



ttouThourhirfu" "Since then at 

ture life an agony tam hour, 

constraineth him r-r^-i >. _ . 

to travel from land That agony rctums; 
to land, And till my ghastly tale is 

told, 
This heart within me burns. 

"I pass, like night, from 

land to land; 586 

I have strange power of 

speech; 
That moment that his face 

I see, 
I know the man that must 

hear me: 
To him my tale I teach. 590 

''What loud uproar bursts 

from that door: 
The wedding-guests are 

there ; 
But in the garden-bower 

the bride 
And bride-maids singing 

are; 
And hark the little vesper 
, bell, 595 

Which biddeth me to 



prayer 



''O Wedding-Guest! this 

soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea: 
So lonely 'twas, that God 

himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

"0 sweeter than the mar- 
riage-feast, 601 

'Tis sweeter far to me. 

To walk together to the 
kirk 

With a goodly company! — 

"To walk together to the 
kirk, 605 

And all together pray. 
While each to his great 
Father bends, 



Old men, and babes, and 

loving friends, 
And youths and maidens 

gay! 



but And to teach, by 
, bis own example, 

010 love and reverence 
to all things that 
God made and 
loveth. 



' ' Farewell , farewell ! 

this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding 

Guest ! 
He- prayeth well, who 

loveth well 
Both man and bird and 

beast. 

"He prayeth best, who 

loveth best 
All things both great and 

small; 615 

For the dear God who 

loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye 
is bright. 

Whose beard with age is 
hoar, 

Is gone; and now the Wed- 
ding-Guest 620 

Turned from the bride- 
groom's door. 

He went like one that hath 

been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn. 

FROST AT MIDNIGHT 

The frost performs its secret ministry, 
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
Came loud — and hark, again! loud as be- 
fore. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
Have left me to that solitude, which suits 5 
Abstruser musings: save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it dis- 
turbs 
And vexes meditation with its strange 
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and 
wood, 10 

This populous village! Sea, and hill, and 
wood, 



COLERIDGE 



431 



With all the numberless goings on of life 
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame 
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; 
Only that film, which fluttered on the 

grate, _ 15 

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
Making it a companionable form. 
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling 

Spirit 20 

By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
And makes a toy of Thought. 

But oh! how oft. 
How oft, at school, with most believing 

mind, 25 

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as 

oft 
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old 

church-tower, 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, 

rang 30 

From mom to evening, all the hot Fair- 
day, 
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted 

me 
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
Most like articulate sounds of things to 

come! 
So gazed I, till the soothing things I 

dreamt 35 

Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my 

dreams! 
And so I brooded all the following morn. 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine 

eye 
Fixed with mock study on my swimming 

book: 
Save if the door half opened, and I 

snatched 40 

A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped 

up 
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more be- 
loved. 
My play-mate when we both were clothed 

alike! 
Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my 

side, 45 

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this 

deep calm. 



Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought! 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at 

thee, 50 

And think that thou shalt learn far other 

lore 
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
And saw naught lovely but the sky and 

stars. 
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a 

breeze 55 

By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the 

crags 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the 

clouds, 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and 

shores 
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and 

hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language, which thy God 61 
Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 65 
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to 

thee. 
Whether the summer clothe the general 

earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and 

sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare 

branch 

apple-tree, while the nigh 



Of 



mossy 

thatch 
Smokes in the sun- thaw; whether the 

eavedrops fall 
Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
Quietly shining to the quiet moon. 75 



HYMN 

BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE 
OF CHAMOUNI 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning- 
star 
In his steep course? So long he seems 
to pause 



432 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful 

Form! S 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, 

black, 
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 

shrine, n 

Thy habitation from eternity! 

dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon 

thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced 

in prayer 15 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening 

to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with 

my thought. 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret 

joy: 20 

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to 

Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 

Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, 

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, 

awake! 27 

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my 

Hymn. 
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the 

Vale! 
struggling with the darkness all the 

night, 30 

And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when they 

sink: 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald! wake, oh wake, and utter 



praise 



35 



Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in 

Earth? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy 

light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual 

streams? 



And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely 
glad! 

Who called you forth from night and utter 
death, 40' 

From dark and icy caverns called you 
forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged 
rocks. 

Forever shattered and the same forever? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 
your joy, 45 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 

And who commanded (and the silence 
came). 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the moun- 
tain's brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 50 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
voice. 

And stopped at once amid their maddest 
plunge ! 

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of 
Heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade 
the sun 55 

Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with 
living flowers 

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your 
feet?— 

God! let the torrents, like a shout of na- 
tions. 

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! 

God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with glad- 
some voice! 60 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul- 
like sounds! 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of 
snow, 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, 
God! 
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 
frost! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's 
nest! 65 

Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain- 
storm! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 
clouds ! 

Ye signs and wonders of the element! 

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with 
praise! 



COLERIDGE 



433 



Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky- 
pointing peaks, 70 

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, un- 
heard. 

Shoots downward, ghttering through the 
pure serene 

Into the depth of clouds that veil thy 
breast — 

Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! 
thou 

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed 
low 75 

In adoration, upward from thy base 

Slow-travelling with dim eyes diffused 
with tears. 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 

To rise before me — Rise, oh ever rise. 

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! 

Thou kingly spirit throned among the 
hills, 81 

Thou dread ambassador from earth to 
heaven, 

Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky. 

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising 
sun, 

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises 
God. 85 



DEJECTION: AN ODE 

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon 
With the old Moon in her arms ; 

And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! 
We shall have a deadly storm. 

Ballad oj Sir Patrick Spens. 



Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who 
made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick 

Spens, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go 
hence 
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier 

trade 
Than those which mould yon cloud in 
lazy flakes, 5 

Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and 
rakes 
Upon the strings of this ^olian lute, 
Which better far were mute; 
For lo ! the new-moon winter bright ! 
And overspread wdth phantom light. 10 



(With swimming phantom hght o'er- 

spread 
But rimmed and circled by a silver 
thread) 
I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling 
The coming-on of rain and squally 
blast. 
And oh! that even now the gust were 
swelling, 15 

And the slant night-shower driving 
loud and fast I 
Those sounds which oft have raised me, 
whilst they awed, 
And sent my soul abroad. 
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse 

give, 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it 
live ! 20 

II 

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and 
drear, 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 

Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, 25 
To other thoughts by yonder throstle 

wooed, 
All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 

Have I been gazing on the western sky, 
And its peculiar tint of yellow green: 

And. still I gaze — and with how blank an 
eye! 30 

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and 
bars, 

That give away their motion to the stars; 

Those stars, that glide behind them or be- 
tween. 

Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but al- 
ways seen: 

Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew 35 

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; 

1 see them all so excellently fair, 

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! 

m 

My genial spirits fail; 
And what can these avail 40 

To lift the smothering weight from off my 
breast? 
It were a vain endeavor, 
Though I should gaze for e\"er 
On that green light that lingers in the 
west : 



434 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



I may not hope from outward forms to 
win 45 

The passion and the life, whose fountains 
are within. 

IV 

O Lady, we receive but what we give, 
And in our Hfe alone does Nature live: 
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her 
shroud ! , 

And what we ought behold, of higher 
worth, 50 

Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the earth— 55 

And from the soul itself must there be sent 
A sweet and potent voice, of its own 
birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element! 



O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of 

me 
What this strong music in the soul may 

be! 60 

What, and wherein it doth exist. 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous 

mist, 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was 

given, 
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour. 
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once 

and shower, 66 

Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, 
Which wedding Nature to us gives in 

dower, 
A new earth and new heaven. 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the 

proud — 70 

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous 

cloud — 
We in ourselves rejoice! 
And thence flows all that charms or ear 

or sight, 
All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
All colors a suffusion from that light. 75 

VI 

There was a time when, though my path 
was rough. 
This joy within me dallied with distress, 



And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
Whence Fancy made me dreams of hap- 
piness : 
For hope grew round me, like the twining 
vine, 80 

And fruits, and foliage, not my own, 

seemed mine. 
But now afflictions bow me down to 

earth: 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth; 

But oh! each visitation 
Suspends what Nature gave me at my 
birth, 85 

My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel. 

But to be still and patient, all I can; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 
From my own nature all the natural 
man — 90 

This was my sole resource, my only 
plan: 
Till that which suits a part infects the 

whole. 
And now is almost grown the habit of my 
soul. 

VII 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around 
my mind, 
Reality's dark dream! 95 

I turn from you, and listen to the wind. 
Which long has raved unnoticed. 
What a scream 
Of agony by torture lengthened out 
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that 
ravest without, 
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted 
tree, 100 

Or pine-grove whither woodman never 

clomb, 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' 
home, 
Methinks were fitter instruments for 
thee. 
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of 

showers, 
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping 
flowers, 105 

Makest Devils' yule, with worse than 

wintry song, 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves 
among. 
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! 
Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold! 



COLERIDGE 



435 



What tell'st thou now about? no 

'Tis of the rushing of an host in 

rout, 

With groans of trampled men, with 

smarting wounds — 

At once they groan with pain, and shudder 

with the cold! 
But hush! there is a pause of deepest 
silence ! 
And all that noise, as of a rushing 
crowd, 115 

With groans and tremulous shudderings — 
all is over — 
It tells another tale, with sounds less 
deep and loud ! 
A tale of less affright. 
And tempered with delight. 
As Otway's self had framed the tender 
lay; 120 

'Tis of a little child 
Upon a lonesome wild. 
Not far from home, but she hath lost her 

way: 
And now moans low in bitter grief and 

fear. 
And now screams loud, and hopes to make 
her mother hear. 125 

VIII 

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I 

of sleep : 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils 

keep! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of 
healing, 
And may this storm be but a mountain 
birth. 
May all the stars hang bright above her 
dwelling, 130 

Silent as though they watched the sleep- 
ing Earth! 
With hght heart may she rise. 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her 
voice; 
To her may all things live, from pole to 
pole, 13 s 

Their life the eddying of her living soul I 

simple spirit, guided from above. 
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my 

choice. 
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore re- 
joice. 



YOUTH AND AGE 

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 

When I was young! 5 

When I was young? — Ah, woeful When! 
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! 
This breathing house not built with 

hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, 10 

How lightly then it flashed along: — 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 1 5 

Nought cared this body for wind or 

weather 
When Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; 

Friendship is a sheltering tree; 

Oh! the joys, that came down shower- 
like, 20 

Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
Ere I was old! 

Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere, 
Which tells me. Youth's no longer here! 

Youth! for years so many and sweet, 25 
'Tis known, that thou and I were one, 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be that thou art gone! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled: — 
And thou wert aye a masker bold! 30 

What strange disguise hast now put on. 
To make believe, that thou art gone? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips, 
This drooping gait, this altered size: 
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 35 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 
Life is but thought: so think I will 

That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
But the tears of mournful eve! 40 

Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve, 

When we are old: 
That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 45 



436 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
That may not rudely be dismissed ; 
Yet hath out-stayed his welcome while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 



WORK WITHOUT HOPE 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave 

their lair — 
The bees are stirring — birds are on the 

wing — • 
And Winter slumbering in the open air, 
Wears on his smiling face a dream of 

Spring! 
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, 5 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor 

sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where ama- 
ranths blow. 
Have traced the fount whence streams of 

nectar flow. 
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom 

ye may, 
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, 

away! 10 

With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, 

I stroll: 
And would you learn the spells that 

drowse my soul? 
Work without Hope draws nectar in a 

sieve. 
And Hope without an object cannot live. 



From the BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 

Chapter XIV 

During the first year that Mr. Words- 
worth and I were neighbors, our con- 
versations turned frequently on the two 
cardinal points of poetry, the power of 
exciting the sympathy of the reader by 
a faithful adherence to the truth of na- 
ture, and the power of giving the interest 
of novelty by the modifying colors of 
imagination. The sudden charm, which 
accidents of light and shade, which [10 
moonlight or sunset, diffused over a known 
and familiar landscape, appeared to rep- 
resent the practicability of combining 
both. These are the poetry of nature. 
The thought suggested itself (to which of 



us I do not recollect) that a series of poems 
might be composed of two sorts. In the 
one, the incidents and agents were to 
be, in part at least, supernatural; and 
the excellence aimed at was to consist [20 
in the interesting of the affections by the 
dramatic truth of such emotions as would 
naturally accompany such situations, sup- 
posing them real. And real in this sense 
they have been to every human being 
who, from whatever source of delusion, 
has at any time believed himself under 
supernatural agency. For the second 
class, subjects were to be chosen from 
ordinary life; the characters and [30 
incidents were to be such as will be found 
in every village and its vicinity, where 
there is a meditative and feeling mind to 
seek after them, or to notice them when 
they present themselves. 

In this idea originated the plan of the 
Lyrical Ballads; in which it was agreed 
that my endeavors should be directed to 
persons and characters supernatural, or 
at least romantic; yet so as to transfer [40 
(^from our inward nature a human in- 
terest and a semblance of truth sufficient 
to procure for these shadows of imagina- 
tion that willing suspension of disbelief 
for the moment, which constitutes poetic 
faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other 
hand, was to propose to himself as his 
object, to give the charm of novelty to 
things of every day, and to excite a feeling 
analogous to the supernatural, by [50 
awakening the mind's attention from 
the lethargy of custom, and directing it 
to the loveliness and the wonders of the 
world before us ; an inexhaustible treasure, 
but for which, in consequence of the film 
of familiarity and selfish solicitude, we 
have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear 
not, and hearts that neither feel nor 
understand. 

With this view I wrote The Ancient [60 
Mariner, and was preparing, among other 
poems, The Dark Ladie, and the Chris- 
tabel, in which I should have more nearly 
realized my ideal than I had done in my 
first attempt. But Mr. Wordsworth's 
industry had proved so much more suc- 
cessful, and the number of his poems so 
much greater, that my compositions, 
instead of forming a balance, appeared 



COLERIDGE 



437 



rather an interpolation of heterogene- [70 
ous matter. Mr. Wordsworth added two 
or three poems written in his own char- 
acter, in the impassioned, lofty, and sus- 
tained diction which is characteristic of 
his genius. In this form the Lyrical 
Ballads were published; and were pre- 
sented by him, as an experiment, whether 
subjects, which from their nature rejected 
the usual ornaments and extra-colloquial 
style of poems in general, might not [80 
be so managed in the language of ordinary 
life as to produce the pleasurable interest 
which it is the peculiar business of poetry 
to impart. To the second edition he 
added a preface of considerable length; in 
which, notwithstanding some passages 
of apparently a contrary import, he was 
understood to contend for the extension 
of this style to poetry of all kinds, and 
to reject as vicious and indefensible all [90 
phrases and forms of style that were not 
included in what he (unfortunately, I 
think, adopting an equivocal expression,) 
called the language of real life. From 
this preface, prefixed to poems in which 
it was impossible to deny the presence of 
original genius, however mistaken its di- 
rection might be deemed, arose the whole 
long-continued controversy. For from 
the conjunction of perceived power [100 
with supposed heresy I explain the in- 
veteracy, and in some instances, I grieve 
to say, the acrimonious passions, with 
which the controversy has been con- 
ducted by the assailants. 

Had Mr. Wordsworth's poems been the 
silly, the childish things, which they were 
for a long time described as being; had 
they been really distinguished from the 
compositions of other poets merely by [no 
meanness of language, and inanity of 
thought; had they indeed contained noth- 
ing more than what is found in the paro- 
dies and pretended imitations of them; 
they must have sunk at once, a dead 
weight, into the slough of oblivion, and 
have dragged the preface along with 
them. But year after year increased the 
number of Mr. Wordsworth's admirers. 
They were found, too, not in the lower [120 
classes of the reading public, but chiefly 
among young men of strong sensibility 
and meditative minds; and their admira- 



tion (inflamed perhaps in some degree by 
opposition) was distinguished by its 
intensity, I might almost say by its re- 
ligious fervor. These facts, and the in- 
tellectual energy of the author, which 
was more or less consciously felt, where 
it was outwardly and even bois- [130 
terously denied, meeting with sentiments 
of aversion to his opinions, and of alarm 
at their consequences, produced an eddy 
of criticism, which would of itself have 
borne up the poems by the violence with 
which it whirled them round and round. 
With many parts of this preface, in the 
sense attributed to them, and which 
the words undoubtedly seem to authorize, 
I never concurred; but, on the con- [140 
trary, objected to them as erroneous in 
principle, and as contradictory (in ap- 
pearance at least) both to other parts of 
the same preface and to the author's 
own practice in the greater number of 
the poems themselves. Mr. Wordsworth, 
in his recent collection, has, I find, de- 
graded this prefatory disquisition to the 
end of his second volume, to be read or 
not at the reader's choice. But he [150 
has not, as far as I can discover, an- 
nounced any change in his poetic creed. 
At all events, considering it as the source 
of a controversy, in which I have been 
honored more than I deserve by the fre- 
quent conjunction of my name with his, 
I think it expedient to declare, once for 
all, in what points I coincide with his 
opinions, and in what points I altogether 
differ. But in order to render myself [160 
intelligible, I must previously, in as few 
words as possible, explain my ideas, first, 
of a poem; and secondly, of poetry itself, 
in kind and in essence. 

The office of philosophical disquisition 
consists in just distinction; while it is 
the privilege of the philosopher to pre- 
serve himself constantly aware that dis- 
tinction is not di\'ision. In order to ob- 
tain adequate notions of any truth, [170 
we must intellectually separate its dis- 
tinguishable parts; and this is the tech- 
nical process of philosophy. But ha\'ing 
so done, we must then restore them in our 
conceptions to the unity in which they 
actually coexist; and this is the result of 
philosophy. A poem contains the same 



438 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



elements as a prose composition; the dif- 
ference, therefore, must consist in a dif- 
ferent combination of them, in conse- [i8o 
quence of a different object proposed. 
According to the difference of the object 
will be the difference of the combination. 
It is possible that the object may be 
merely to facilitate the recollection of 
any given facts or observations by arti- 
ficial arrangement; and the composition 
will be a poem, merely because it is dis- 
tinguished from prose by meter, or by 
rime, or by both conjointly. In this, [190 
the lowest sense, a man might attribute 
the name of a poem to the well-known 
enumeration of the days in the several 
months : 

"Thirty days hath September, 
April, June, and November," etc., 

and others of the same class and pur- 
pose. And as a particular pleasure is 
found in anticipating the recurrence of 
sound and quantities, all compositions [200 
that have this charm superadded, what- 
ever be their contents, may be entitled 
poems. 

So much for the superficial form. A 
difference of object and contents supplies 
an additional ground of distinction. The 
immediate purpose may be the communi- 
cation of truths: either of truth absolute 
and demonstrable, as in works of science; 
or of facts experienced and recorded, [210 
as in history. Pleasure, and that of the 
highest and most permanent kind, may 
result from the attainment of the end; 
but it is not itself the immediate end. 
In other works the communication of 
pleasure may be the immediate purpose; 
and though truth, either moral or intel- 
lectual, ought to be the ultimate end, yet 
this will distinguish the character of the 
author, not the class to which the [220 
work belongs. . . . 

But the communication of pleasure may 
be the immediate object of a w^ork not 
metrically composed; and that object 
may have been in a high degree attained, 
as in novels and romances. Would then 
the mere superaddition of meter, with or 
without rime, entitle these to the name 
of poems? The answer is, that nothing 
can permanently please, which does [230 



not contain in itself the reason why it is 
so, and not otherwise. If meter be super- 
added, all other parts must be made 
consonant with it. They must be such as 
to justify the perpetual and distinct at- 
tention to each part, which an exact cor- 
respondent recurrence of accent and 
sound are calculated to excite. The final 
definition then, so deduced, may be 
thus worded. A poem is that species [240 
of composition, which is opposed to works 
of science, by proposing for its immediate 
object pleasure, not truth; and from all 
other species (having this object in com- 
mon with it) it is discriminated by pro- 
posing to itself such delight from the 
whole, as is compatible with a distinct 
gratification from each component part. 
Controversy is not seldom excited in 
consequence of the disputants at- [250 
taching each a different meaning to the 
same word; and in few instances has this 
been more striking than in disputes con- 
cerning the present subject. If a man 
chooses to call every composition a poem, 
which is rime, or measure, or both, I must 
leave his opinion uncontroverted. The 
distinction is at least competent to char- 
acterize the writer's intention. If it were 
subjoined, that the whole is likewise [260 
entertaining or affecting as a tale, or as 
a series of interesting reflections, I of 
course admit this as another fit ingredi- 
ent of a poem, and an additional merit. 
But if the definition sought for be that 
of a legitimate poem, I answer, it must 
be one the parts of which mutually sup- 
port and explain each other; all in their 
proportion harmonizing with, and sup- 
porting the purpose and known in- [270 
fluences of metrical arrangement. The 
philosophic critics of all ages coincide with 
the ultimate judgment of all countries, 
in equally denying the praises of a just 
poem, on the one hand, to a series of 
striking lines or distichs, each of which 
absorbing the whole attention of the 
reader to itself, disjoins it from its con- 
text, and makes it a separate whole, in- 
stead of a harmonizing part; and on [280 
the other hand, to an unsustained com- 
position, from which the reader collects 
rapidly the general result unattracted by 
the component parts. The reader should 



COLERIDGE 



439 



be carried forward, not merely or chiefly 
by the mechanical impulse of curiosity, or 
by a restless desire to arrive at the final 
solution; but by the pleasurable activity 
of mind excited by the attractions of the 
journey itself. Like the motion of a [290 
serpent, which the Egyptians made the 
emblem of intellectual power; or like the 
path of sound through the air, at every 
step he pauses and half recedes, and from 
the retrogressive movement collects the 
force which again carries him onward. 
PrcBcipitandus est liber spiritus, says 
Petronius Arbiter most happily. The epi- 
thet, liber, here balances the preceding 
verb: and it is not easy to conceive [300 
more meaning condensed in fewer words. 

But if this should be admitted as a 
satisfactory character of a poem, we have 
still to seek for a definition of poetry. 
The writings of Plato, and Bishop Taylor, 
and the Theoria Sacra of Burnet, furnish 
undeniable proofs that poetry of the 
highest kind may exist without meter, 
and even without the contra-distinguish- 
ing objects of a poem. The first chap- [310 
ter of Isaiah (indeed a very large propor- 
tion of the whole book) is poetry in the 
most emphatic sense; yet it would be not 
less irrational than strange to assert, that 
pleasure, and not truth, was the imme- 
diate object of the prophet. In short, 
whatever specific import we attach to the 
word poetry, there will be found involved 
in it, as a necessary consequence, that a 
poem of any length neither can be, [320 
nor ought to be, all poetry. Yet if a har- 
monious whole is to be produced, the re- 
maining parts must be preserved in keep- 
ing with the poetry; and this can be no 
otherwdse effected than by such a studied 
selection and artificial arrangement as 
will partake of one, though not a peculiar 
property of poetry. And this again can 
be no other than the property of exciting 
a more continuous and equal atten- [330 
tion than the language of prose aims at, 
whether colloquial or written. . . . 

WTiat is poetry? is so nearly the same 
question with, what is a poet? that the 
answer to the one is involved in the solu- 
tion of the other. For it is a distinction 
resulting from the poetic genius itself, 
which sustains and modifies the images, 



thoughts, and emotions of the poet's 
own mind. The poet, described in [340 
ideal perfection, brings the whole soul 
of man into activity, with the subordina- 
tion of its faculties to each other, ac- 
cording to their relative worth and dig- 
nity. He diffuses a tone and spirit of 
unity, that blends, and (as it were) 
fuses, each into each, by that synthetic 
and magical power, to which we have 
exclusively appropriated the name of 
imagination. This power, first put [350 
in action by the will and understanding, 
and retained under their irremissive, 
though gentle and unnoticed, control 
(Jaxis effertur habenis), reveals itself in the 
balance or reconciliation of opposite or 
discordant qualities: of sameness, with 
difference; of the general, with the con- 
crete; the idea, with the image; the in- 
dividual, with the representative; the 
sense of novelty and freshness, with [360 
old and famihar objects; a more than 
usual state of emotion, with more than 
usual order; judgment ever awake and 
steady self-possession with enthusiasm 
and feeling profound or vehement; and 
while it blends and harmonizes the nat- 
ural and the artificial, still subordinates 
art to nature; the manner to the matter; 
and our admiration of the poet to our 
sympathy with the poetry. "Doubt- [370 
less," as Sir John Davies observes of the 
soul (and his words may with shght al- 
teration be appHed, and even more ap- 
propriately, to the poetic imagination), — 

"Doubtless this could not be, but that she 
turns 

Bodies to spirit by sublimation strange, 
As fire converts to fire the things it burns, 

As we our food into our nature change. 

"From their gross matter she abstracts 

their forms, 

And draws a kind of quintessence from 

things; [3 So 

Which to her proper nature she transforms 

To bear them hght on her celestial 

wings. 

"Thus does she, when from individual 
states 
She doth abstract the universal kinds; 



440 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Which then re-clothed in divers names and 
fates 
Steal access through our senses to our 
minds." 

Finally, good sense is the body of poetic 
genius, fancy its drapery, motion its Hfe, 
and imagination the soul that is every- 
where, and in each, and forms all into [390 
one graceful and intelligent whole. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843) 

THE INCHCAPE ROCK 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was still as she could be. 
Her sails from heaven received no motion, 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their 
shock 5 

The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; 
So little they rose, so Uttle they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The Abbot of Aberbrothok 

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape 

Rock; 10 

On a buoy in the storm it floated and 

swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the Rock was hid by the surge's 

swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell; 
And then they knew the perilous Rock, 15 
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay. 

All things were joyful on that day; 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled 

round, 
And there was joyaunce in their sound. 20 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, 25 
It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
His heart was mirthful to excess, 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 



His eye was on the Inchcape float; 
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat, 30 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aber- 
brothok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 35 
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape 
float. 

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound, 
The bubbles rose and burst around; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes 

to the rock 
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 40 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, 
He scoured the seas for many a day; 
And now grown rich with plundered store 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 45 
They cannot see the sun on high; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day, 
At evening it hath died away. 

On deck the Rover takes his stand, 
So dark it is they see no land. 50 

Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers 

roar? 
For methinks we should be near the 

shore." 
" Now where we are I cannot tell, 55 

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." 

They hear no sound, the swell is strong; 
Though the wind hath fallen they drift 

along. 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering 

shock, — 
" Oh Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock ! " 60 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; 
He cursed himself in his despair; 
The waves rush in on every side, 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But even in his dying fear 65 

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, 
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell 
The Devil below was ringing his knell. 



SCOTT 



441 



MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD ARE 
PASSED 

My days among the Dead are passed; 

Around me I behold, 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 

The mighty minds of old; 
My never-failing friends are they, 5 

With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe, 10 

My cheeks have often been bedewed 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the Dead; with 
them 

I live in long-past years. 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 15 

Partake their hopes and fears, 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with the Dead; anon 

My place with them will be, 20 

And I with them will travel on 
Through all futurity; 

Yet leaving here a name, I trust. 

That will not perish in the dust. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) 

From MARMION, CANTO V 

LOCHINVAR 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the 
west. 

Through all the wide Border his steed was 
the best; 

And, save his good broadsword, he weap- 
ons had none. 

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in 
war, _ _ 5 

There never was knight like the young 
Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped 

not for stone, 
He swam the Eske River where ford there 

was none; 



But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came 
late; 10 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in 
war. 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
invar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and 

brothers, and all. 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand 

on his sword 15 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said 

never a word), 
"0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in 

war. 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 

Lochinvar? " 

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you 

denied; — 
Love swells Uke the Solway, but ebbs like 

its tide, — 20 

And now I am come, with this lost love of 

mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup 

of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more 

lovely by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight 

took it up, J 5 

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw 

down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked 

up to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her 

eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother 

could bar, — 
"Now tread we a measure," said young 

Lochinvar. 30 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 
That never a hall such a galliard^ did 

grace; 
While her mother did fret, and her father 

did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangUng his 

bonnet and plume; 

' lively dance. 



44^ 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And the bridemaidens whispered, " 'Twere 
better by far 35 

To have matched our fair cousin with 
young Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in 

her ear. 
When they reached the hall-door, and the 

charger stood near; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he 

swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung; 
" She is won ! we are gone ! over bank, bush, 

and scaur ;^ 41 

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," 

quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 

Netherby clan; 
Forsters, Fen wicks, and Musgraves, they 

rode and they ran: 
There was racing and chasing on Can- 

nobie Lee, 45 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 

they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in 

war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochinvar? 



From THE LADY OF THE LAKE 
SOLDIER, REST! 

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, 

Sleep the sle'ep that knows not breaking; 
Dream of battled fields no more, 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall, 5 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing. 
Fairy strains of music fall, 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er. 
Dream of fighting fields no more; 10 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking. 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

No rude sound shall reach thine ear. 
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, 

Trump nor pibroch summon here 15 

Mustering clan or squadron tramping. 

«cliff. 



Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 

At the daybreak from the fallow. 
And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the sedgy shallow. 20 
Ruder sounds shall none be near, 
Guards nor warders challenge here, 
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champ- 
ing, 
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; 25 

While our slumbrous spells assail ye. 
Dream not, with the rising sun. 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
Sleep! the deer is in his den; 

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying: 30 
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; 
Think not of the rising sun. 
For at dawning to assail ye 35 

Here no bugles sound reveille. 



BOAT SONG 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph ad- 
vances ! 
Honored and blessed be the ever-green 
Pine! 
Long may the tree, in his banner that 
glances, 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our 
line! 
Heaven send it happy dew, 5 

Earth lend it sap anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow. 
While every Highland glen 
Sends back our shout again, 
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! 10 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
fountain. 
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; 
When the whirlwind has stripped every 
leaf on the mountain. 
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her 
shade. 
Moored in the rifted rock, 15 

Proof to the tempest's shock. 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; 
Menteith and Breadalbane, then. 
Echo his praise again, 
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! 20 



SCOTT 



443 



Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen 
Fruin, 
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan 
replied; 
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking 
in ruin, 
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead 
on her side. 
Widow and Saxon maid 25 

Long shall lament our raid, 
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with 
woe; 
Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear again, 
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! 30 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the 
Highlands! 
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green 
Pine! 
O! that the rose-bud that graces yon is- 
lands 
Were wreathed in a garland around him 
to twine! 
O that some seedling gem, 35 

Worthy such noble stem. 
Honored and blessed in their shadow 
might grow! 
Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
Ring from her deepmost glen, 
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! 40 



CORONACH 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font, reappearing, 5 

From the rain-drops shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering. 

To Duncan no morrow! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary, 10 

But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our flower was in flushing, 15 

When bUghting was nearest. 



Fleet foot on the correi. 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river. 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and for ever! 



HARP OF THE NORTH 

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills 
grow dark, 
On purple peaks a deeper shade descend- 
ing; 
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her 
spark, 
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert 
wending. 
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain 
lending, 5 

And the wild breeze, thy wilder min- 
strelsy; 
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers 
blending, 
With distant echo from the fold and lea, 
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of 
housing bee. 

Yet once again farewell, thou Minstrel 
harp! 10 

Yet once again forgive my feeble sway.. 
And little reck I of the censure sharp 

May idly cavil at an idle lay. 
Much have I owed thy strains on life's 
long way, 
Through secret woes the world has 
never known, 15 

When on the weary night dawned wearier 
day, 
And bitterer was the grief devoured 
alone. 
That I o'erlive such woes. Enchantress! 
is thine own. 

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow re- 
tire, 
Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy 
string ! 20 

'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire. 
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic 
wing. 



444 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Receding now, the dying numbers ring 
Fainter and fainter down the rugged 
dell, 
And now the mountain breezes scarcely 
bring 25 

A wandering witch-note of the distant 
spell — 
Ai^d now, 'tis silent all! — Enchantress, 
fare thee well ! 

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 

Why weep ye by the tide? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride; 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 5 

Sae comely to be seen" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done. 

And dry that cheek so pale; 10 

Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 15 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

"A chain of gold ye sail not lack. 

Nor braid to bind your hair; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 20 

And you, the foremost o' them a'. 

Shall ride our forest queen" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was decked at morning-tide, 25 

The tapers glimmered fair; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride. 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 

The lady was not seen! 30 

She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 

BRIGNALL BANKS 

Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair. 
And Greta woods are green, 

And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer queen. 



And as I rode by Dalton Hall, 5 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily: — 
"Oh, Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 

And Greta woods are green; 10 

I'd rather rove with Edmund there. 

Than reign our English queen." — 

"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we 15 

That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read. 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed. 

As blithe as Queen of May." — 20 

Yet sung she: "Brignall banks are fair. 

And Greta woods are green; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 

Than reign our English queen. 

" I read you by your bugle-horn, 25 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn 

To keep the King's greenwood." — 
"A ranger, lady, winds his horn, ' 

And 'tis at peep of light: 30 

His blast is heard at merry morn. 

And mine at dead of night." — 
Yet sung she: "Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay: 
I would I were with Edmund there, 35 

To reign his Queen of May. 

"With burnished brand and musketoon 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold dragoon 

That lists the tuck of drum." — 40 

"I list no more the tuck of drum. 

No more the trumpet hear. 
But when the beetle sounds his hum, 

My comrades take the spear. 
And oh, though Brignall banks be fair, 45 

And Greta woods be gay. 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare 

Would reign my Queen of May! 

"Maiden, a nameless life I lead, 
A nameless death I'll die: 50 

The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, 
Were better mate than I! 

And when I'm with my comrades met, 
Beneath the greenwood bough, 



SCOTT 



445 



What once we were we all forget, 55 

Nor think what we are now. 
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 

Would grace a summer queen." 60 

COUNTY GUY 

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who thrilled all day, 5 

Sits hushed his partner nigh: 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade 

Her shepherd's suit to hear; 10 

To beauty shy by lattice high. 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky; 
And high and low the influence know — 15 

But where is County Guy? 

BONNY DUNDEE 

To the Lords of Convention 't was 

Claver'se who spoke, 
"Ere the King's crown shall fall there are 

crowns to be broke; 
So let each Cavalier who loves honor and 

me, 

Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can, 5 

Come saddle your horses and call up 

your men; 
Come open the West Port and let me 

gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of 
Bonny Dundee!" 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 

street, 
The bells are rung backward, the drums 

they are beat; 10 

But the provost, douce^ man, said, "Just 

e'en let him be. 
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil 

of Dundee." 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

' sedate. 



As he rode down the sanctified bends of 

the Bow, 
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her 

pow; 
But the young plants of grace they looked 

couthie and slee, 15 

Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou 

Bonny Dundee! 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass- 
market was crammed 

As if half the West had set tryst to be 
hanged; 

There was spite in each look, there was 
fear in each e'e. 

As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny 
Dundee. 20 

Come fill up my cup, etc. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and 
had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; 

But they shrunk to close-heads and the 
causeway was free, 

At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
dee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle 

rock, 25 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 

spoke ; 
"Let Mons Meg and her marrows^ speak 

twa words or three, 
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny 

Dundee." 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

The Gordon demands of him which way 

he goes — 
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of 

Montrose! 30 

Your Grace in short space shall hear 

tidings of me. 
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny 

Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

"There are hills beyond Pentland and 

lands beyond Forth, 
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's 

chiefs in the North; 



446 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 
sand times three, 35 

Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

"There's brass on the target of barkened^ 
bull-hide; 

There's steel in the scabbard that dangles 
beside; 

The brass shall be burnished, the steel 
shall flash free, 

At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
dee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

''Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 

rocks — 41 

Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the 

fox; 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of 

your glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet 

and me!" 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

He waved his proud hand and the trump- 
ets were blown, 45 
The kettle-drums clashed and the horse- 
men rode on, 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Cler- 

miston's lea 
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can, 
Come saddle the horses and call up 
the men, 50 

Come open your gates and let me gae 

free, 
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny 
Dundee! 



GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 

(1788-1824) 

WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 
In silence and tears, 

Half broken-hearted 
To sever for years. 

' tanned. 



Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame: 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well: — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget. 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 



IS 



25 



30 



KNOW YE THE LAND? 

Know ye the land where the cypress and 

myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in 

their clime? 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of 

the turtle. 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to 

crime? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 5 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams 

ever shine; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed 

with perfume, 
Wa.x faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her 

bloom; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of 

fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is 

mute; 10 



BYRON 



447 



Where the tints of the earth, and the hues 

of the sky, 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they 

twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 15 
Tis the cUme of the East; 'tis the land of 

the Sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children 

have done? 
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the 

tales wliich they tell. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 5 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, • 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 

Or softly lightens o'er her face; 10 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear, their dwelling- 
place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 15 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF 
SENNACHERIB 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 

the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple 

and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like 

stars on the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 

Galilee. 



Like the leaves of the forest when Sum- 
mer is green, 5 

That host with their banners at sunset 
were seen: 

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn 
hath blown. 

That host on the morrow lay withered 
and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings 

on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he 

passed; 10 

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly 

and chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and 

for ever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all 

wide. 
But through it there rolled not the breath 

of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on 

the turf, IS 

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating 

surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on 
his mail: 

And the tents were all silent, the banners 
alone. 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet un- 
blown. 20 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 

wail. 
And the idols are broke in the temple of 

Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by 

the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 

Lord! 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me: 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lulled winds seem dreaming. 



448 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep: 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



IS 



SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING 

So, we'll go no more a-roving 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath, s 

And the soul wears out the breast. 

And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving, 
And the day returns too soon, lo 

Yet we'll go no more a-roving 
By the light of the moon. 



MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 5 
And a smile to those who hate; 

And, whatever sky's above me. 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me. 
Yet it still shall bear me on; 10 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well, 
As I gasped upon the brink. 

Ere my fainting spirit fell, 15 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 20 



SONNET ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can 

bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are con- 
signed— 5 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 

gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyr- 
dom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every 

wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 
And thy sad steps an altar — for 't was 
trod, 10 

Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
By Bonnivard! May none those marks 

efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

My hair is gray, but not with years; 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night. 
As men's have grown from sudden fears: 
My limbs are bowed, though not with 
toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 6 

For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned, and barred — forbidden fare; 10 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death: 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake; 
And for the same his lineal race 15 

In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven — who now are one; 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finished as they had begun. 

Proud of Persecution's rage; 20 

One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have sealed 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied; — 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 25 

Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



BYRON 



449 



There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; 
There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, 30 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left: 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp. 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp: 35 

And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these Umbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 40 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er; 
I lost their long and heavy score 45 

When my last brother drooped and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 

They chained us each to a column stone. 

And we were three — yet each alone; 

We could not move a single pace, 50 

We could not see each other's face. 

But with that pale and livid light 

That made us strangers in our sight: 

And thus together — yet apart. 

Fettered in hand, but joined in heart, 55 

'Twas still some solace in the dearth 

Of the pure elements of earth, 

To hearken to each other's speech, 

And each turn comforter to each, 

With some new hope, or legend old, 60 

Or song heroically bold; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 

An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 65 
As they of yore were wont to be: 
It might be fancy — but to me 
Thev never sounded like our own. 



I was the eldest of the three; 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 

I ought to do— and did — my best, 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven,- 

For him my soul was sorely moved 
And truly might it be distressed 
To see such bird in such a nest; 



70 



75 



For he was beautiful as day — 

(When day was beautiful to me 80 

As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad off spring of the sun : 85 

And thus he was as pure and bright. 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for naught but others' ills. 
And then they flowed like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 90 

Which he abhorred to view below. 

The other was as pure of mind. 
But formed to combat with his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perished in the foremost rank 96 

With joy — but not in chains to pine: 
His spirit withered with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine; 100 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had followed there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 105 

And fettered feet the worst of ills. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow; 
Thus much the fathom line was sent no 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 

Which round about the wave enthralls: 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 115 

The dark vault lies wherein we lay; 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked; 
And I have felt the \vinter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were 
high 120 

And wanton in the happy sky; 

And then the very rock hath rocked, 

And I have felt it shake, unshocked. 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 125 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food: 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude 



450 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



For we were used to hunters' fare, 130 

And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 136 
Like brutes within an iron den; 
But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 140 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free-breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 145 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in 

vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlocked his chain 
And scooped for him a shallow grave 150 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought. 
But then within my brain it wrought, 155 
That even in death his free-born breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laughed— and laid him there: 
The flat and turfless earth above 160 

The being we so much did love; 
His empty chain above it leant. 
Such murder's fitting monument! 

But he, the favorite and the flower. 

Most cherished since his natal hour, 165 

His mother's image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyred father's dearest thought. 

My latest care, for whom I sought • 

To hoard my life, that his might be 170 

Less wretched now, and one day free; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 175 

God! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood: — 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180 

Strive with a swollen convulsive motion. 



I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread: 

But these were horrors — ^this was woe 

Unmixed with such, — but sure and slow: 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 186 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearlessj yet so tender, — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 191 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 195 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot ! 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 

In this last loss, of all the most: 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I listened, but I could not hear — 205 

I called, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound. 

And rushed to him; — I found him not; 211 

/ only stirred in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; 

The last, — the sole, — the dearest link 215 

Between me and the eternal brink 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe: 

I took that hand which lay so still; 221 

Alas, my own was full as chill; 

I had not strength to stir or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 225 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die; 
I had no earthly hope— but faith. 
And that forbade a selfish death. 230 

What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew: — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 
And then of darkness too: 



BYRON 



451 



I had no thought, no feeling — none — 235 

Among the stones I stood a stone, 

And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 

As shrubless crags within the mist; 

For all was blank, and bleak, and gray. 

It was not night — it was not day; 240 

It was not even the dungeon-light. 

So hateful to my heavy sight. 

But vacancy absorbing space. 

And fixedness, without a place: 

There were no stars, — no earth, — no 

time, — 24s 

No check, — no change, — no good, — no 

crime, — - 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird; 
It ceased, and then it came again. 

The sweetest song ear ever heard; 
And mine was thankful, till my eyes 255 
Ran over wth the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 260 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 265 
That bird was perched, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree; 
A lovely bird, mth azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seemed to say them all for me! 270 

I never saw its like before, 

I ne'er shall see its likeness more: 

It seemed, like me, to want a mate. 

But was not half so desolate, 

And it was come to love me when 275 

None lived to love me so again. 

And cheering from my dungeon's brink. 

Had brought me back to feel and think. 

I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird, I could not wish for thine! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise; 



For — Heaven forgive that thought! the 
while 285 

Which made me both to weep and smile; 
I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew. 
And then 'twas mortal^well I knew, 290 
For he would never thus have flown. 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone, — as the corse within its shroud; 
Lone, — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 295 

While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue and earth is gay. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 300 

My keepers grew compassionate: 

I know not what had made them so, 

They were inured to sights of woe; 

But so it was — my broken chain 

With links unfastened did remain, 305 

And it was liberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side. 

And up and down, and then athwart. 

And tread it over every part; 

And round the pillars one by one, 310 

Returning where my walk begun, 

Avoiding only, as I trod. 

My brothers' graves without a sod; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My step profaned their lowly bed, 315 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, 

And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all 320 

Who loved me in a human shape; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery; 325 

I thought of this, and I was glad. 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barred windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 330 
The quiet of a loving eye. 
I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below, 335 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 



452 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channeled rock and broken bush; 
I saw the white-walled distant town, 
And whiter sails go skimming down; 340 
And then there was a little isle, 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view: 
A small green isle, it seemed no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor; 345 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers grow- 
ing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 350 

The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seemed joyous, each and all; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seemed to fly, 355 

And then new tears came in my eye. 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 360 

Fell on me as a heavy load; 
It was as is a new-dug grave. 
Closing o'er one we sought to save. 
And yet my glance, too much oppressed. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 365 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count— I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last men came to set me free, 370 

I asked not why, and recked not where; 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fettered or fetterless to be, 

I learned to love despair. 
And thus, when they appeared at last, 375 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home: 380 

With spiders I had- friendship made. 
And watched them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place, 385 

And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learned to dwell — 



My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 390 
To make us what we are: — even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
From CANTO III 

Waterloo 

There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Belgium's capital had gathered 

then 182 

Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and 

bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and 

brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and 

when 185 

Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which 

spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage bell; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like 

a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the 
wind, 190 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 

On with the dance! let joy be uncon- 
fined; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and 
Pleasure meet 

To chase the glowing Hours with flying 
feet. — 

But hark! that heavy sound breaks in 
once more, 195 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than be- 
fore! 
Arm! arm! it is! — it is — the cannon's open- 



ing roar 



Within a windowed niche of that high 
hall 

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did 
hear 200 

That sound the first amidst the festival, 

And caught its tone with Death's pro- 
phetic ear, 

And when they smiled because he 
deemed it near, 



BYRON 



453 



His heart more truly knew that peal 

too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody 

bier, 205 

And roused the vengeance blood alone 

could quell. 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost 

fighting, fell. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and 

fro. 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of 

distress. 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour 

ago 210 

Blushed at the praise of their own love- 
liness; 
And there were sudden partings, such 

as press 
The life from out young hearts, and 

choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated: who 

could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual 

eyes, 215 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn 

could rise! 

And there was mounting in hot haste: 

the steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clat- 
tering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous 

speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of 

war; 220 

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning 

star; 
While thronged the citizens with terror 

dumb. 
Or whispering with white lips — "The foe! 

They come! they come!" 225 

And wild and high the "Cameron's 

Gathering" rose. 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's 

hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her 

Saxon foes; 
How in the noon of night that pibroch 

thrills 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath 

which fills 230 



Their mountain pipe, so fill the moun- 
taineers 

With the fierce native daring which 
instils 

The stirring memory of a thousand 
years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each 
clansman's ears! 

And Ardennes waves above them her 

green leaves, 235 

Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they 

pass. 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above 

shall grow 240 

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder 

cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly 

The midnight brought the signal-sound 

of strife, 246 

The mom the marshalling in arms — 

the day 
Battle's magnificently stem array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which 

when rent 
The earth is covered thick with other 

clay, 250 

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped 

and pent, 
Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red 

burial blent! 

Lake Leman 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal 
face. 

The mirror where the stars and moun- 
tains view 645 

The stillness of their aspect in each 
trace 

Its clear depth yields of their far height 
and hue; 

There is too much of man here, to look 
through 

With a fit mind the might which I be- 
hold; 



454 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



But soon in me shall loneliness renew 650 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherished 
than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penned me 
in their fold. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, man- 
kind; 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil. 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 655 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the 

spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the 

coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for 
wrong 660 

'Midst a contentious world, striving 
where none are strong. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our 

years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to 

tears. 
And color things to come with hues of 

night: 665 

The race of life becomes a hopeless 

flight 
To those that walk in darkness; on the 

sea 
The boldest steer but where their ports 

invite. 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and on, and an- 
chored ne'er shall be. 670 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy 

Rhone, 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth 

make 675 

A fair but froward infant her own care. 

Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 

Is it not better thus our lives to wear. 

Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to 

inflict or bear? 

I live not in myself, but I become 6S0 
Portion of that around me: and to me. 
High mountains are a feeling, but the 

hum 
Of human cities torture; I can see 



Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 685 
Classed among creatures, when the soul 

can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heav- 
ing plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in 
vain. 

And thus I am absorbed, and this is 

life: 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 690 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was 

cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion; which I feel to 

spring. 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as 

the blast 695 

Which it would cope with, on delighted 

wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round 

our being cling. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be 

all free 
From what it hates in this degraded 

form. 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall 

be 700 

Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I 

not 
Feel all I see, less dazzUng, but more 

warm? 
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each 

spot? 705 

Of which, even now, I share at times the 

immortal lot? 

Are not the mountains, waves, and 
skies, a part 

Of me and of my soul, as I of them? 

Is not the love of these deep in my 
heart 

With a pure passion? should I not con- 
temn 710 

All objects, if compared with these? and 
stem 

A tide of suffering rather than forego 

Such feelings for the hard and worldly 
phlegm 



BYRON 



455 



Of those whose eyes are only turned 
below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts 
which dare not glow? 715 



Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted 
lake, 797 

With the wild world I dwelt in, is a 
thing 

Which warns me, with its stillness, to 
forsake 

Earth's troubled waters for a purer 
spring. 800 

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 

To waft me from distraction; once I 
loved 

Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft mur- 
muring 

Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice re- 
proved 
That I with stern delights should e'er 
have been so moved. 805 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, 

yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly 

seen, 
Save darkened Jura, whose capped 

heights appear 
Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from 

the shore, 811 

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on 

the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended 

oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night 

carol more. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 815 
HLs life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At inter\^als, some bird from out the 

brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the 

hill. 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 821 
Weeping themselves away, till they 

infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of 

her hues. 



Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! 

If in your bright leaves we would read 
the fate 825 

Of men and empires, — 'tis to be for- 
given, 

That in our aspirations to be great, 

Our destinies o'erleap their mortal 
state. 

And claim a kindred with you; for ye 
are 

A beauty and a mystery, and create 830 

In us such love and reverence from 
afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have 
named themselves a star. 

All heaven and earth are still — though 
not in sleep, 

But breathless, as we grow when feeling 
most; 

And silent, as we stand in thoughts too 
deep:— 835 

All heaven and earth are still: from the 
high host 

Of stars, to the lulled lake and moun- 
tain-coast. 

All is concentered in a life intense. 

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is 
lost. 

But hath a part of being, and a sense 840 
Of that which is of all Creator and De- 
fence. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone; 
A truth which through our being then 

doth melt. 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 845 
The soul and source of music, which 

makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty; 'twould 

disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial 

power to harm. 850 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and 

thus take 
A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are 

weak, 855 



456 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Upreared of human hands. Come, and 

compare 
Columns and idol dwellings, Goth or 

Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth 

and air, 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe 

thy prayer! 

The sky is changed! — and such a 
change ! night, 860 

And storm, and darkness, ye are won- 
drous strong. 

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the 
light 

Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, 

From peak to peak, the rattling crags 
among 

Leaps the live thunder! Not from one 
lone cloud, 865 

But every mountain now hath found a 
tongue. 

And Jura answers, through her misty 
shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her 
aloud! 

And this is in the night : — Most glorious 
night ! 869 

Thouwert not sent for slumber! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the 

earth! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, 
the glee 875 

Of the loud hills shakes with its moun- 
tain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- 
quake's birth. • 

From CANTO IV 

VENICE 

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 

A palace and a prison on each hand: 

I saw from out the wave her structures 
rise 

As from the stroke of the enchanter's 
wand : 

A thousand years their cloudy wings ex- 
pand S 



Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject 

land 
Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles. 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on 

her hundred isles! 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean. 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 1 1 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers; 
And such she was; her daughters had 

their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaust- 
less East 15 
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling 

showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dig- 
nity increased. 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is 

here. 23 

States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth 

not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear. 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 26 
The revel of the earth, the masque of 

Italy! 

ROME 

Rome! my country! city of the soul! 

The orphans of the heart must turn to 
thee, 695 

Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 

In their shut breasts their petty misery. 

What are our woes and sufferance? 
Come and see 

The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your 
way 

O'er steps of broken thrones and tem- 
ples, Ye! 700 

Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

The Niobe of nations! there she stands. 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless 
woe; 704 

An empty urn within her withered hands, 
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; 



BYRON 



457 



TheScipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 
The very sepulchres He tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle 
her distress. 711 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, 

Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's 

pride; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs 

ride, _ 715 

Where the car^ climbed the Capitol; far 

and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left 

a site: 
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void. 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light. 
And say, "Here was, or is," where all is 

doubly night? 720 

The double night of ages, and of her. 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath 

wrapped and wrap 
All round us; we but feel our way to err: 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their 

map. 
And Knowledge spreads them on her 

ample lap; 725 

But Rome is as the desert, where we 

steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry "Eureka! it is 

clear!" — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises 

near. 

Alas! the lofty city! and, alas, 730 

The trebly hundred triumphs; and the 

day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge 

surpass 
The Conqueror's sword in bearing fame 

away! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Li\y's pictured page; — but these 

shall be 735 

Her resurrection; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when 

Rome was free ! 

' chariot. 



THE COLISEUM 

Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line. 
Would build up all her triumphs in one 

dome, 1 146 

Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams 

shine 
As 't were its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, 

to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless 

mine 1150 

Of contemplation; and the azure gloom 

Of an Italian night, where the deep skies 

assume 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye 

of heaven. 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous 

monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is 

given ^ 1 1 55 

Unto the things of earth, which Time 

hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is 

a power 
And magic in the ruined battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are 

its dower. 1161 



And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 

In murmured pity, or loud-roared ap- 
plause. 

As man was slaughtered by his fellow man. 

And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, 
but because 1246 

Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. 

And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore 
not? 

What matters where we fall to fill the 
maws 

Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? 

Both are but theaters where the chief 

actors rot. 12 51 

I see before me the Gladiator lie: 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his drooped head sinks gradually 

low — I2.S.T 



458 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And through his side the last drops, ebb- 
ing slow 

From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 

Like the first of a thunder-shower; and 
now 

The arena swims around him — he is gone. 

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which 

hailed the wretch who won. 1260 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far 

away; 
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, 
B ut where his rude hut by the D anubelay , 
There were his young barbarians all at 

play, 1265 

There was their Dacian mother — ^he, 

their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday — 
All this rushed with his blood — Shall he 

expire 
And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and 

glut your ire! 

But here, where Murder breathed her 
bloody steam; 1270 

And here, where buzzing nations choked 
the ways, 

And roared or murmured like a moun- 
tain stream 

Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 

Here, where the Roman milUons' blame 
or praise 

Was death or life, the playthings of a 
crowd, 1275 

My voice sounds much — and fall the 
stars' faint rays 

On the arena void — seats crushed — walls 
bowed — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes 
strangely loud. 

A ruin — yet what ruin! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been 

reared; 1280 

Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. 
And marvel where the spoil could have 

appeared. 
Hath it indeed been plimdered, or but 

cleared? 

Alas! developed, opens the decay, 1284 

When the colossal fabric's form is neared: 

It will not bear the brightness of the day. 

Which streams too much on all, years, 

man have reft away. 



But when the rising moon begins to 

climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses 

there; 
When the stars twinkle through the 

loops of time, 1290 

And the low night-breeze waves along 

the air 
The garland-forest which the gray walls 

wear. 
Like laurels on thebald first Caesar's head ; 
When the light shines serene but doth 

not glare. 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their 

dust ye tread. 1296 

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall 

stand ; 
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall, 
And when Rome falls — the World." 

From our own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty 

wall 1300 

In Saxon times, which we are wont to 

call 
Ancient; and these three mortal things 

are still 
On their foundations, and unaltered all; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's 

skill. 
The world, the same wide den — of thieves, 

or what ye will. 1305 

NATURE 

Oh that the desert were my dwelling 
place, ... .1585 

With one fair spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race. 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye Elements, in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted, can ye not 1590 
Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot, 
Though with them to converse can rarely 
be our lot? 

There is a pleasure in the pathless 
woods, 1594 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
There is society where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its 
roar: 



BYRON 



459 



I love not Man the less, but Nature 

more, 
From these our interviews, in which I 

steal 
From all I may be or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and 

feel 1601 

What I can ne'er express, yet can not all 

conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean 

—roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in 

vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his 

control 1605 

Stops with the shore; — upon the watery 

plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 

remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 

groan, 1610 

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined 

and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy 

fields 
Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile 

strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all 

despise, 161 5 

Spurning him from thy bosom to the 

skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy play- 
ful spray. 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply 

Hes 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth — there 

let him lay. 1620 

The armaments which thunderstrike the 

walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations 

quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs 

make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 1625 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 

flake, 



They melt into thy yeast of waves, 
which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of 
Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all 

save thee — 1630 

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what 

are they? 
Thy waters washed them power while 

they were free. 
And many a tyrant since; their shores 

obey 
The stranger, slave or savage; their 

decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so 

thou, _ 1635 

Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' 

play— 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 

brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou 

rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Al- 
mighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests: in all time, 1640 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or 

storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and 

sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy 
slime 1645 

The monsters of the deep are made; 
each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, 
fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean! and my 

joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast 

to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from 

a boy 1650 

I wantoned with thy breakers — they to 

me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing 

fear. 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I 

do here. 1656 



460 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



DON JUAN 
From the Dedication 



Bob Southey! You're a poet — Poet- 
laureate, 
And representative of all the race; 
Although 'tis true that you turned out a 
Tory at 
Last, — yours has lately been a common 
case; 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye 
at? 5 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place? 
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye; 

II 

"Which pye being opened they began to 
sing" 
(This old song and new simile holds 
good), 10 

'"A dainty dish to set before the King," 
Or Regent, who admires such kind of 
food; — 
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken '"ing, 
But like a hawk encumbered with his 
hood, — 
Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 15 
I wish he would explain his Explanation. 

Ill 

You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know. 

At being disappointed in your wish 
To supersede all warblers here below. 

And be the only Blackbird in the dish; 

And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 21 

And tumble downward like the flving 

fish 

Gasping on deck, because you soar too 

high. Bob, 
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-drv, 
Bob! 

IV 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Ex- 
cursion " 25 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred 
pages), 
Has given a sample from the vasty ver- 
sion 
Of his new system to perplex the sages; 



'Tis poetry — at least by his assertion. 
And may appear so when the dog-star 
rages— _ 30 

And he who understands it would be able 
To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 



xvn 

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to 
dedicate 
In honest simple verse, this song to 
you. 130 

And, if in flattering strains I do not pred- 
icate, 
'Tis that I still retain my "buff and 
blue"; 
My politics as yet are all to educate: 

Apostasy's so fashionable, too. 
To keep one creed's a task grown quite 
Herculean: 135 

Is it not so, my Tory, Ultra- Julian? 



From CANTO III 
The Isles of Greece 

The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 695 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse: 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon — 701 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 

For standing on the Persian's grave, 705 

I could not deem myself a sla^' e. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
And men in nations; — all were his! 710 

He counted them at break of day— 

And when the sun set, where were they? 



BYRON 



461 



And where are they? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 715 

The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 721 

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 727 

A remnant of our Spartan dead! 
Of the three hundred grant but three. 
To make a new Thermopylae! 730 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah! no; the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, "Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come!" 735 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 



In vain — in vain: strike other chords: 
Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 740 

Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 

How answers each bold Bacchanal! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet: 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 745 

The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We vill not think of themes hke these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine; 751 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 755 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 

That tyrant was Miltiades! 
Oh! that the present hour would lend 

Another despot of the kind! 

Such chains as his were sure to bind. 760 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 765 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells: 

In native swords and native ranks, 

The only hope of courage dwells; 770 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine; 775 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 781 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 



Thus sung, or would, or could, or should 
have sung, 785 

The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; 
If not like Orpheus quite, w^hen Greece 
was young. 
Yet in these times he might have done 
much worse: 
His strain displayed some feeling — right 
or wrong; 
And feehng, in a poet, is the source 790 
Of others' feeling; but they are such liars, 
And take all colors, like the hands of 
dyers. 

But words are things, and a small drop of 
ink 
Falling, Uke dew, upon a thought, 
produces 
That which makes thousands, perhaps 
millions, think; 795 

'Tis strange, the shortest letter which 
man uses 
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
Of ages; to what straits old Time re- 
duces 



462 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Frail man, when paper — even a rag like 

this, 
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's 

his. 800 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a 
blank. 

His station, generation, even his nation, 
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 

In chronological commemoration, 
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 805 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's 
station 
In digging the foundation of a closet, 
May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

And glory long has made the sages smile; 
'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, 
wind — 810 

Depending more upon the historian's 
style. 
Than on the name a person leaves be- 
hind. 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to 
Hoyle: 
The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving 
knocks, 815 

Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say; 

A little heavy, but no less divine: 
An independent being in his day — 
Learned, pious, temperate in love and 
wine : 820 

But his life falling into Johnson's way. 
We're told this great high priest of all 
the Nine 
Was whipt at college, — a harsh sire, — odd 

spouse. 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 

All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 825 
Like Shakespeare's stealing deer. Lord 
Bacon's bribes; 
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest 
acts; 
Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well 
describes) ; 
Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although 
truth exacts 
These amiable descriptions from the 
scribes, 830 

As most essential to their hero's story. 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 



All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of "Pantisoc- 
racy " ; 
Or Wordsworth, unexcised, unhired, who 
then 83s 

Seasoned his peddler poems with de- 
mocracy: 
Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 

Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; 
When he and Southey, following the same 

path. 
Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

Such names at present cut a convict 
figure, 841 

The very Botany Bay in moral geog- 
raphy; 
Their loyal treason, renegado rigor. 
Are good manure for their more bare 
biography. 
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is 
bigger 845 

Than any since the birthday of typog- 
raphy; 
A drowsy, frowsy poem called The Excur- 
sion, 
Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

:^ 1^ i^ ^ ^ iji: 

But let me to my story: I must own. 
If I have any fault, it is digression — 

Leaving my people to proceed alone. 
While I soHloquize beyond expression; 

But these are my addresses from the 
throne, 861 

Which put off business to the ensuing 
session, 

Forgetting each omission is a loss to 

The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

I know that what our neighbors called 
longueurs 865 

(We've not so good a word, but have the 
thing, 
In that complete perfection v/hich en- 
sures 
An epic from Bob Southey every 
spring—) 
Form not the true temptation which 
allures 
The reader; but 'twould not be hard to 
bring 870 

Some fine examples of the epopee 
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 



BYRON 



463 



We learn from Horace, "Homer some- 
times sleeps"; 
We feel without him, Wordsworth some- 
times wakes, — 
To show with what complacency he creeps. 
With his dear " — Waggoners," around his 
lakes. 876 

He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps — 
Of ocean? — No, of air; and then he 
makes 
Another outcry for "a little boat," 
And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 880 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal 
plain. 
And Pegasus runs restive in his "Wag- 
gon," 
Could he not beg the loan of Charles's 
Wain, 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon? 
Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 885 
He feared his neck to venture such a 
nag on, 
And he must needs mount nearer to the 

moon, 
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 



O Hesperus! thou bringest all good 
things— 945 

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 
To the young bird the parent's brooding 
wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabored 
steer; 
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone 
clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect 
of dear, 950 

Are gathered round us by thy look of rest; 
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the 
mother's breast. 

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and 

melts the heart 

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are 

torn apart; 955 

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; 

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? 

Ah! surely nothing dies but something 

mourns. 960 



When Nero perished by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed. 
Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of nations freed, and the world over- 
joyed. 
Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon 
his tomb; 965 

Perhaps the weakness of a heart not 
void 
Of feeling for some kindness done, when 

power 
Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

But I'm digressing; what on earth has 
Nero, 
Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 970 
To do with the transactions of my hero, 
More than such madmen's fellow-man — 
the moon's? 
Sure my invention must be down at zero, 
And I grown one of many "wooden 
spoons " 
Of verse (the name with which we Can- 
tabs please 975 
To dub the last of honors in degrees). 

I feel this tediousness will never do — 
'T is being too epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this long canto into two; 
They'll never find it out, unless I own 9S0 

The fact, excepting some experienced few; 
And then as an improvement 'twill be 
shown : 

I'll prove that such the opinion of the 
critic is 

From Aristotle passim. — See TloLrjTLKrjs. 



CANTO IV 

Nothing so difficult as a beginning 
In poesy, unless perhaps the end; 
For oftentimes, when Pegasus seems win- 
ning 
The race, he sprains a \^^ng, and down 
we tend. 
Like Lucifer, when hurled from heaven 
for sinning; 5 

Our sin the same, and hard as his to 
mend, 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar 

too far, 
Till our own weakness shows us what we 
are. 



464 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



But Time, which brings all beings to their 
level, 
And sharp Adversity, will teach at 
last 10 

Man, and — ^as we would hope— perhaps 
the devil. 
That neither of their intellects are vast: 
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins 
revel. 
We know not this — -the blood flows on 
too fast; 
But as the torrent widens towards the 
ocean, 15 

We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

As boy, I thought myself a clever fel- 
low, 
And wished that others held the same 
opinion ; 

They took it up when my days grew more 
mellow. 
And other minds acknowledged my 
dominion : 20 

Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellow 
Leaf," and Imagination droops her 
pinion, 

And the sad truth which hovers o'er my 
desk 

Turns what was once romantic to bur- 
lesque. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 25 

'T is that I may not weep; and if I 
weep, 
'T is that our nature cannot always bring 

Itself to apathy, for we must steep 
Our hearts first in the depth of Lethe's 
spring, 
Ere what we least wish to behold will 
sleep: 30 

Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; 
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 

Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the 
land, 
And trace it in this poem every line: 35 
I don't pretend that I quite understand 
My own meaning when I would be very 
fine; 
But the fact is, that I have nothing 
planned 
Unless it were to be a moment merry, 
A novel word in my vocabulary. 40 



To the kind reader of our sober clime. 
This way of writing will appear exotic; 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme. 
Who sang when chivalry was more 
Quixotic, 

And revelled in the fancies of the time, 45 
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, 
kings despotic; 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

How I have treated it, I do not know; 
Perhaps no better than they have 
treated me 50 

Who have imputed such designs as show 
Not what they saw, but what they 
wished to see: 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; 
This is a Hberal age, and thoughts are 
free: 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 55 
And tells me to resume my story here. 

Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own hearts' most sweet society; 

Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 
With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; 
he 60 

Sighed to behold them of their hours bereft. 
Though foe to love; and yet they could 
not be 

Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 

Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, 
their 65 

Pure blood to stagnate, their great 
hearts to fail ; 
The blank gray was not made to blast 
their hair. 
But like the climes that know nor snow 
nor hail 
They were all summer: hghtning might 
assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 70 
A long and snake-Hke life of dull decay 
Was not for them — they had too little clay. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 

Thus was another Eden; they were 

never 

Weary, unless when separate: the tree 75 

Cut from its forest root of years — the 

river 



BYRON 



465 



Dammed from its fountain — ^the child 

from the knee 
And breast maternal weaned at once for 

ever, — 
Would wither less than these two torn 

apart; 
Alas! there is no instinct Hke the heart — 80 

The heart — which may be broken : happy 

they! 
Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile 
mould, 
The precious porcelain of human clay. 
Break with the first fall: they can ne'er 
behold 
The long year linked with heavy day on 
day, _ 85 

And all which must be borne, and never 
told; 
While life's strange principle will often 

lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

"Whom the gods love die young," was 

said of yore. 
And many deaths do they escape by 

this: 90 

The death of friends, and that which 

slays even more — 
The death of friendship, love, youth, 

all that is, 
Except mere breath; and since the silent 

shore 
Awaits at last even those who longest 

miss 
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early 

grave 95 

Which men weep over may be meant 

to save. 

They gazed upon the sunset; 'tis an hour 
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 
For it had made them what they were: the 
power 155 

Of love had first o'erwhelmed them from 
such skies. 
When happiness had been their only dower, 
And twilight saw them linked in pas- 
sion's ties; 
Charmed with each other, all things 

charmed that brought 
The past still welcome as the present 
thought. 160 



Mixed in each other's arms, and heart in 
heart, 
Why did they not then die? — they had 
lived too long 210 

Should an hour come to bid them breathe 
apart; 
Years could but bring them cruel things 
or wrong; 
The world was not for them, nor the world's 
art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song; 
Love was bom with them, in them, so 
intense 215 

It was their very spirit, not a sense. 

They should have lived together deep in 
woods. 
Unseen as sings the nightingale; they 
were 
Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 
Called social, haunts of hate, and vice, 
and care: 220 

How lovely every free-bom creature 
broods ! 
The sweetest songbirds nestle in a pair; 
The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow 
Flock o'er their carrion, just like men 
below. 

Now pillowed cheek to cheek, in loving 

sleep, 225 

Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep. 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would 

creep; 
And Haidee's sweet lips murmured like a 

brook 230 

A wordless music, and her face so fair 
Stirred with her dream, as rose-leaves with 

the air; 

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 

Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the 

dream, 235 

The mystical usurper of the mind — 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 

Good to the soul which we no more can 

bind; 

Strange state of being ! (for 'tis still to be) 

Senseless to feel, and with sealed eyes to 

see. 240 



466 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



She dreamed of being alone on the sea- 
shore, 
Chained to a rock; she knew not how, 

but stir 
She could not from the spot, and the 

loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, 

threatening her; 
And o'er her upper lip they seemed to 

pour, 245 

Until she sobbed for breath, and soon 

they were 
Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and 

high- 
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not 

die. 

Anon — she was released; and then she 
strayed 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleed- 
ing feet, 250 
And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
And something rolled before her in a 
sheet, 
Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid; 
'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopped 
to meet 
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, 
and grasped, 255 
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasped. 

The dream changed: — in a cave she stood, 
its walls 
Were hung with marble icicles, the work 
Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 

Where waves might wash, and seals 

might breed and lurk; 260 

Her hair was dripping, and the very 

balls 

Of her black eyes seemed turned to 

tears, and mirk 

The sharp rocks looked below each drop 

they caught. 
Which froze to marble as it fell — she 
thought. 

And wet, and cold, and hfeless, at her 
feet, 265 

Pale as the foam that frothed on his 
dead brow, 
Which she essayed in vain to clear (how 
sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seemed 
they now!) 



Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the 
beat 
Of his quenched heart; and the sea- 
dirges low 270 

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's 
song. 

And that brief dream appeared a life too 
long. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his 
face 
Faded, or altered into something new — 
Like to her father's features, till each 
trace 275 

More like and like to Lambro's aspect 
grew — 
With all his keen worn look and Grecian 
grace ; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to 
view? 
O Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets 

she there? 
'Tis — 'tis her father's — fixed upon the 



pair! 



280 



Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking 
fell. 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to 
see 
Him whom she deemed a habitant where 
dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to 
be 
Perchance the death of one she loved too 
well: 285 

Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 
It was a moment of that awful kind — 
I have seen such — but must not call to 
mind. 

Up Juan sprang to Haidee's bitter shriek, 
And caught her falling, and from off 
the wall 290 

Snatched down his sabre, in hot haste to 
wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of 
all. 
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to 
sp)eak. 
Smiled scornfully, and said, "Within 
my call, 
A thousand scimitars await the word; 295 
Put up, young man, put up your silly 
sword." 



BYRON 



467 



And Haidee clung around him; "Juan, 
'tis— 
'Tis Lambro — 'tis my father! Kneel 
with me — 
He will forgive us — yes — it must be — 
yes. 
Oh dearest father, in this agony 300 
Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can 
it be 
That doubt should mingle with my filial 

joy? 
Deal with me as thou wUt, but spare this 
boy." 

High and inscrutable the old man stood, 305 
Calm in his voice, and calm within his 
eye- 
Not always signs with him of calmest 
mood: 
He looked upon her, but gave no reply; 
Then turned to Juan, in whose cheek the 
blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to 
die 310 

In arms, at least, he stood in act to spring 
On the first foe whom Lambro's call might 
bring. 

"Young man, your sword!" So Lambro 
once more said; 
Juan replied, "Not while this arm is 
free!" 
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not 
with dread, 315 

And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
Replied, " Your blood be then on your own 
head;" 
Then looked close at the flint, as if to 
see 
'Twas fresh — for he had lately used the 

lock — 
And next proceeded quietly to cock. 320 

It has a strange, quick jar upon the ear, 
That cocking of a pistol, when you know 

A moment more will bring the sight to 
bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or 
so; 

A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 325 
If you have got a former friend for foe; 

But after being fired at once or t\\'ice, 

The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 



Lambro presented, and one instant more 
Had stopped this canto, and Don Juan's 
breath, 330 

When Haidee threw herself her boy be- 
fore; 
Stern as her sire, "On me," she cried, 
"let death 
Descend— the fault is mine; this fatal 
shore 
He found — but sought not. I have 
pledged my faith; 
I love him — I will die with him: I knew 335 
Your nature's firmness — know your daugh- 
ter's too." 

A minute past, and she had been all 
tears, 
And tenderness, and infancy; but now 

She stood as one who championed human 
fears — 

Pale, statue-like, and stern, she wooed the 
blow; 340 

And tall beyond her sex, and their com- 
peers. 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark ; and with a fixed eye scanned 

Her father's face — but never stopped his 
hand. 

He gazed on her, and she on him; 'twas 
strange 345 

How like they looked! the expression 
was the same, 
Serenely savage, with a little change 
In the large dark eye's mutual-darted 
flame; 
For she, too, was as one who could avenge, 
If cause should be — a Uoness, though 
tame. 350 

Her father's blood before her father's face 
Boiled up, and proved her truly of his race. 

I said they were alike, their features and 
Their stature differing but in sex and 
years; 
Even to the delicacy of their hand 355 
There was resemblance, such as true 
blood wears; 
And now to see them, thus divided, stand 

In fixed ferocity, when joyous tears 
And sweet sensations should have wel- 
comed both, 
Show what the passions are in their full 
growth. 360 



468 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



The father paused a moment, then with- 
drew 
His weapon, and replaced it; but stood 
still. 
And looking on her, as to look her through, 
"Not /," he said, "have sought this 
stranger's ill; 
Not / have made this desolation; few 365 
Would bear such outrage, and forbear to 
kill; 
But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
Done thine, the present vouches for the 
past. 

"Let him disarm; or, by my father's head, 
His own shall roll before you like a 
ball!" 370 

He raised his whistle, as the word he 
said, 
And blew; another answered to the call. 
And, rushing in disorderly, though led. 
And armed from boot to turban, one 
and all. 
Some twenty of his train came, rank on 
rank; 375 

He gave the word — "Arrest or slay the 
Frank!" 

Then, with a sudden movement, he with- 
drew 
His daughter; while compressed within 
his clasp, 
'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew; 
In vain she struggled in her father's 
grasp — 380 

His arms were like a serpent's coil: then 
flew 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 
The file of pirates; save the foremost, who 
Had fallen, with his right shoulder half 
cut through. 

The second had his cheek laid open; but 385 

The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 

His own well in; so well, ere you could 

look. 

His man was floored, and helpless at his 

foot. 

With the blood running like a little 

brook, 390 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and 

red — 
One on the arm, the other on the head. 



And then they bound him where he fell, 
and bore 
Juan from the apartment: with a sign, 
Old Lambro bade them take him to the 
shore, _ _ 395 

Where lay some ships which were to sail 
at nine. 
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
Until they reached some galliots, placed 
in line; 
On board of one of these, and under 

hatches, 
They stowed him, with strict orders to the 
watches. 400 

The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 
And here was one exceedingly unpleas- 
ant: 
A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 
Handsome and young, enjoying all the 
present. 
Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing, is suddenly to sea 
sent, 406 

Wounded and chained, so that he cannot 

move, 
And all because a lady fell in love. 

Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, 
green tea! 410 

Than whom Cassandra was not more pro- 
phetic ; 
For if my pure libations exceed three, 
I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 
That I must have recourse to black Bo- 
hea: 
'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious, 415 
For tea and coffee leave us much more 
serious. 



I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — ^425 
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely 
wounded ; 
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
Of those with which his Haidee's bosom 
bounded? 
She was not one to weep, and rave, and 
chafe. 
And then give way, subdued, because 
surrounded; 430 

Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 



BYRON 



469 



There the large olive rains its amber store 
In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, 
and fruit. 
Gush from the earth, until the land runs 
o'er; _ 435 

But there, too, many a poison tree has 
root. 
And midnight listens to the lion's roar. 
And long, long deserts scorch the camel's 
foot, 
Or heaving, whelm the helpless caravan; 
And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 440 

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
Her human clay is kindled : full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth. 
The Moorish blood partakes the planet's 
hour. 

And like the soil beneath, it will bring 
forth: _ ^ 445 

Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's 
dower; 

But her large dark eye showed deep pas- 
sion's force. 

Though sleeping Hke a lion near a source. 

Her daughter, tempered with a milder ray, 

— Like summer's clouds all silvery, 
smooth, and fair, 450 

Till slowly charged with thunder, they dis- 
play 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air — 

Had held till now her soft and milky way. 
But, overwrought with passion and de- 
spair, 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian 
veins, ^ 455 

Even as the Sinioom sweeps the blasted 
plains. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's 
gore. 
And he himself o'ermastered and cut 
down ; 
His blood was running on the very floor. 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her 
own ; 460 

Thus much she viewed an instant, and no 
more — 
Her struggles ceased with one convul- 
sive groan; 
On her sire's arm, which, until now, scarce 

held 
Her writhing, fell she like a cedar felled. 



A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure 
dyes 465 

Were dabbled with the deep blood which 
ran o'er; 
And her head drooped, as when the lily lies 
O'ercharged with rain: her summoned 
handmaids bore 
Their lady to her couch, with gushing eyes; 
Of herbs and cordials they produced 
their store, 470 

But she defied all means they could em- 
ploy, 
Like one hfe could not hold, nor death de- 
stroy. 

Days lay she in that state, unchanged, 
though chill — 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
She had no pulse, but death seemed ab- 
sent still; 475 
No hideous sign proclaimed her surely 
dead; 
Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
All hope; to look upon her sweet face 
bred 
New thoughts of life, for it seemed full of 

soul — 
She had so much, earth could not claim 
the whole. 480 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 

When exquisitely chiselled, still lay 

there, 

But fixed as marble's unchanged aspect 

throws 

O'er the fair Venus, but forever fair; 

O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 485 

And ever-dying Gladiator's air. 
Their energy, like life, forms all their fame, 
Yet looks not Hfe, for they are still the 
same. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers 
wake, 
Rather the dead, for life seemed some- 
thing new, 490 
A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
Struck not on memory, though a hea\y 
ache 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, 
still true. 
Brought back the sense of pain without the 
cause, 495 
For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 



470 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



She looked on many a face with vacant eye, 
On many a token, without knowing 

what; 
She saw them watch her, without asking 

why. 
And recked not who around her pillow 

sat; 500 

Not speechless, though she spoke not; not 

a sigh 
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and 

quick chat 
Were tried in vain by those who served; 

she gave 
No sign, save breath, of having left the 

grave. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded 
not; 505 

Her father watched, she turned her eyes 
away ; 
She recognized no being, and no spot. 

However dear, or cherished in their day; 

They changed from room to room, but all 

forgot. 

Gentle, but without memory, she lay; 510 

At length those eyes, which they would 

fain be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, waxed full of fearful 
meaning. 

And then a slave bethought her of a harp; 

The harper came and tuned his instru- 
ment; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 515 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. 
Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her 
heart re-sent ; 
And he began a long low island song 519 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall. 
In time to his old tune: he changed the 
theme, 
And sung of love; the fierce name struck 
through all 
Her recollection; on her flashed the 
dream 
Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 525 

To be so being: in a gushing stream 
The tears rushed forth from her o'er- 

clouded brain. 
Like mountain mists, at length dissolved 
in rain. 



Short solace, vain relief! — thought came 
too quick, 
And whirled her brain to madness; she 
arose, 530 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the 
sick. 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes; 
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
Although her paroxysm drew towards its 
close : — 
Hers was a frenzy which disdained to 
rave, 535 

Even when they smote her, in the hope to 
save. 

Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense ; 
Nothing could make her meet her 
father's face. 

Though on all other things with looks in- 
tense 
She gazed, but none she ever could re- 
trace. 540 

Food she refused, and raiment; no pre- 
tence 
Availed for either; neither change of 
place. 

Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give 
her 

Senses to sleep — the power seemed gone 
forever. 

Twelve days and nights she withered thus; 

at last, 545 

Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to 

show 

A parting pang, the spirit from her past; 

And they who watched her nearest, 

could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 

Her sweet face irto shadow, dull and 

slow, 550 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the 

black — 
Oh! to possess such luster — and then lack! 



Thus lived — thus died she; never more on 
her 
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was 
not made 
Through years or moons the inner weight 
to bear, 
Which colder hearts endure till they are 
laid 



SHELLEY 



AT^ 



By age in earth; her days and pleasures 

were 565 

Brief but delightful — such as had not 

stayed 

Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to 

dwell. 

The isle is now all desolate and bare, 
Its dwellings down, its tenants passed 
away; 570 

None but her own and father's grave is 
there. 
And nothing outward tells of human 
clay: 
Ye could not know where lies a thing so 
fair; 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to 
say 
What was: no dirge, except the hollow 
sea's, 575 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822) 

HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats though unseen amongst us, — 

visiting 
This various world with as inconstant 
wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower 

to flower; — 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny 
mountain shower, S 

It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance; 
Like hues and harmonies of evening, — 
Like clouds in starlight widely 

spread, — 
Like memory of music fled, — 10 
Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 
With thine own hues all thou dost shine 

upon 
Of human thought or form, — where art 
thou gone? 15 

Why dost thou pass away and leave our 
state, 



This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and 
desolate? 
Ask why the sunlight not forever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain 
river, 
Why aught should fail and fade that once 
is shown, 20 

Why fear and dream and death and 

birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom, — why man has such a 
scope 
For love and hate, despondency and hope? 

No voice from some sublimer world hath 
ever 25 

To sage or poet these responses given — 
Therefore the names of Daemon, Ghost, 
and Heaven, 
Remain the records of their vain endeavor, 
Frail spells — whose uttered charm might 
not avail to sever. 
From all we hear and all we see, 30 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
Thy light alone — like mist o'er mountains 
driven, 
Or music by the night wind sent, 
Through strings of some still instru- 
ment, 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 35 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet 
dream. 

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds 
depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments 

lent; 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent. 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou 
art, 40 

Keep with thy glorious train firm state 
within his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies. 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes — 
Thou — that to human thought art nour- 
ishment, 
Like darkness to a dying flame! 45 
Depart not as thy shadow came, 
Depart not — lest the grave should be, 
Like life and fear, a dark reaUty. 

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and 
sped 
Through many a listening chamber, 
cave, and ruin, 50 



472 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And starlight wood, with fearful steps 
pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed 

dead. 
I called on poisonous names with which 
our youth is fed; 
I was not heard — I saw them not — 
When musing deeply on the lot 55 
Of life, at the sweet time when winds are 
wooing 
All vital things that wake to bring 
News of birds and blossoming, — 
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me; 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in 
ecstasy! 60 

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 
To thee and thine — have I not kept the 

vow? 
With beating heart and streaming 
eyes, even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave; they have 
in visioned bowers 65 

Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outwatched with me the envious 
night — 
They know that never joy illumed my 
brow 
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst 

free 
This world from its dark slavery ; 70 
That thou — O awful Loveliness, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot 
express. 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past — there is a har- 
mony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 75 
Which through the summer is not heard or 

seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not 
been! 
Thus let thy power, which like the 

truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 80 
Its calm — to one who worships thee. 
And every form containing thee, 
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did 
bind 
To fear himself, and love all human 
kind. 



OZYMANDIAS 

I met a traveller from an antique land 

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of 
stone 

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the 
sand, 

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose 
frown, 

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold com- 
mand, 5 

Tell that its sculptor well those passions 
read 

Which yet survive, (stamped on these 
lifeless things,) 

The hand that mocked them and the heart 
that fed: 

And on the pedestal these words appear: 

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and de- 
spair!" II 

Nothing beside remains. Round the de- 
cay 

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and 
bare 

The lone and level sands stretch far away. 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 
I 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of 

Autumn's being. 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the 

leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter 

fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic 

red. 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: thou, 5 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and 

low. 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall 

blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and 
fill 10 

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in 
air) 

With living hues and odors plain and hill: 



SHELLEY 



473 



Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! 

II 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep 
sky's commotion, 15 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves 
are shed, 

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven 
and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning: there are 

spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 19 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim 

verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 

dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing 

night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: 
oh hear! 

Ill 

Thou who didst waken from his summer 

dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser 
day, 



All 



with azure moss and 



overgrown 

flowers 35 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! 

Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level 

powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while 

far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods 

which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 



Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with 

fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves: 

oh hear! 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and 

share 45 

The impulse of thy strength, only less 

free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over 

heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey 

speed 50 

Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er 

have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and 
bowed 55 

One too like thee: tameless, and swift, 
and proud. 

V 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal 
tone, 60 

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit 
fierce. 

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new 

•birth! 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among man- 
kind! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! wind, 69 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 



474 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



THE INDIAN SERENADE 

I arise from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night, 

When the winds are breathing low, 

And the stars are shining bright: 

I arise from dreams of thee, 5 

And a spirit in my feet 

Hath led me — who knows how? 

To thy chamber window, Sweet! 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream — 10 

The Champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 

The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart; — 

As I must on thine, 15 

Oh! beloved as thou art! 

Oh lift me from the grass! 

I die! I faint! I fail! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyeUds pale. 20 

My cheek is cold and white, alas! 

My heart beats loud and fast; — 

Oh! press it to thine own again. 

Where it will break at last. 



THE CLOUD 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting 
flowers. 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken 5 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's 
breast. 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, n 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast; 

And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 15 
While I sleep in the arms of the 
blast. 



Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, — 

It struggles and howls at fits; 20 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills; 

Over the lakes and the plains, 26 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's 
blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 

Which an earthquake rocks and 
swings. 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the 
lit sea beneath. 

It ardors of rest and of love, 40 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy 
nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the moon, 46 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like 
floor. 
By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 
Which only the angels hear, 50 
May have broken the woof of my tent's 
thin roof, 
The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
tent, 55 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
high. 
Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 



SHELLEY 



475 



I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 




In the golden lightnmg 




And the moon's with a girdle of 




Of the sunken sun, 




pearl; 60 




O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 


The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel 




Thou dost float and run; 




and swim, 


Like 


an unbodied joy whose race is just 


When the whirlwinds my banner 




begun. 


15 


unfurl. 








From cape to cape, with a bridge-like 




The pale purple even 




shape. 




Melts around thy flight; 




Over a torrent sea, 




Like a star of heaven 




Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 65 




In the broad day-light 




The mountains its columns be. 


Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy 


shrill 


The triumphal arch through which I 




dehght. 


20 


march 








With hurricane, fire, and snow, 




Keen as are the arrows 




When the powers of the air are chained to 




Of that silver sphere, 




my chair. 




Whose intense lamp narrows 




Is the million-colored bow; 70 




In the white dawn clear. 


24 


The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 


Until 


we hardly see, we feel that it is 


there. 


While the moist earth was laughing 








below. 




All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud. 




I am the daughter of earth and water. 




As, when night is bare. 




And the nursling of the sky; 




From one lonely cloud 




I pass through the pores of the ocean and 


The moon rains out her beams, and heaven 


shores; 75 




is overflowed. 


30 


I change, but I cannot die. 








For after the rain when with never a 




What thou art we know not ; 




stain 




What is most like thee? 




The pavilion of heaven is bare. 




From rainbow clouds there flow not 


And the winds and sunbeams with their 




Drops so bright to see 




convex gleams 


As from thy presence showers a rain of 


Build up the blue dome of air, 80 




melody. 


35 


I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 








And out of the caverns of rain, 




Like a poet hidden 




Like a child from the womb, like a ghost 




In the light of thought. 




from the tomb, 




Singing hymns unbidden, 




I arise and unbuild it again. 




Till the world is wrought 






To s 


ympathy with hopes and fears it 






heeded not: 


40 


TO A SKYLARK 




Like a high-bom maiden 




Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 




In a palace tower. 




Bird thou never wert, 




Soothing her love-laden 




That from heaven, or near it, 




Soul in secret hour 




Pourest thy full heart 


With 


music sweet as love, which 


over- 


In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5 




flows her bower: 


45 


Higher still and higher 




Like a glow-worm golden 




From the earth thou springest 




In a dell of dew, 




Like a cloud of fire; 




Scattering unbeholden 




The blue deep thou wingest, 




Its aerial hue 




And singing still dost soar, and soaring 


Among the flowers and grass which j 


screen 


ever singest. 10 




it from the view: 


50 



476 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these 
heavy- winged thieves. 55 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, 
AH that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music 
doth surpass. 60 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine; 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so 
divine: 65 

Chorus Hymenaeal, 

Or triumphal chant, 
Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hid- 
den want. 70 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or moun- 
tains? 
What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ig- 
norance of pain? 75 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee: 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad 
satiety. 80 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a 
crystal stream? 85 

We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 
saddest thought. 90 



Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should 
come near. 95 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scomer of the 
ground! 100 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am lis- 
tening now. 105 



TO 



Music, when soft voices die. 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken. 
Live within the sense they quicken. 
Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, 5 

Are heaped for the beloved's bed; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone. 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR 
NAPLES 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
The waves are dancing fast and 
bright, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent might; 
The breath of the moist earth is light, 5 
Around its unexpanded buds; 

Like many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. 

The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 10 
With green and purple seaweeds 
strown; 



SHELLEY 



477 



I see the waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, 

thrown : 
I sit upon the sands alone; 
The lightning of the noon- tide ocean 15 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, 
How sweet! did any heart now share in 
my emotion. 

Alas! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 20 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 
The sage in meditation found, 
And walked with inward glory 
crowned — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor 
leisure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 25 
Smiling they live, and call life pleas- 
ure; — 
To me that cup has been dealt in another 
measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild. 

Even as the winds and waters are; 
I could lie down Uke a tired child, 30 
And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne and yet must 
bear. 
Till death like sleep might steal on me. 

And I might feel in the warm air 
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last 
monotony. 36 

Some might lament that I were cold, 
As I, when this sweet day is gone, 

Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 
Insults with this untimely moan; 40 
They might lament — for I am one 

Whom men love not, — and yet regret, 
Unhke this day, which, when the sun 

Shall on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in 
memory yet. 45 



THE WORLD'S WANDERERS 

Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of light 
Speed thee in thy fier}- flight. 
In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now? 



Tell me, Moon, thou pale and gray 5 
Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way, 
In what depth of night or day 

Seekest thou repose now? 

Weary Wind, who wanderest 
Like the world's rejected guest, 10 
Hast thou still some secret nest 
On the tree or billow? 

TIME 

Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are years. 
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep 
woe 
Are brackish with the salt of human tears ! 
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb 
and flow 
Claspest the limits of mortality, 5 

And sick of prey, yet howling on for 
more, 
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable 

shore; 
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm, 
Who shall put forth on thee. 
Unfathomable Sea? 10 

TO NIGHT 

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where all the long and lone daylight 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 5 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray. 

Star in- wrought! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day: 10 
Kiss her until she be wearied out; 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land. 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 15 

I sighed for thee; 
When light rode high, and the dew was 

gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 20 

I sighed for thee. 



478 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
Wouldst thou me? 

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 

Murmured like a noon- tide bee, 25 

Shall I nestle near thy side? 

Wouldst thou me? — And I replied, 
No, not thee! 



Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 
Come soon, soon! 



TO 



30 



35 



One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love, 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not, — 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow? 



15 



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 

From Act II, Scenes IV and V 

Spirit of the Hour: My coursers are fed 
with the lightning. 
They drink of the whirlwind's stream. 
And when the red morning is bright'ning 
They bathe in the fresh sunbeam; 
They have strength for their swiftness 
I deem, 5 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 

I desire: and their speed makes night 
kindle; 
I fear: they outstrip the Typhoon; 



Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle 
We encircle the earth and the moon: 10 
We shall rest from long labors at noon: 

Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. 

On the brink of the night and the morning 

My coursers are wont to respire; 
But the earth has just whispered a warn- 
ing _ IS 
That their flight must be swifter than 

fire: 
They shall drink the hot speed of de- 
sire! 

From Act II, Scene V 

Voice in the Air, singing: Life of Life! thy 
lips enkindle 
With their love the breath between 
them; 
And thy smiles before they dwindle 

Make the cold air fire; then screen them 
In those looks, where whoso gazes 5 

Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light! thy limbs are burning 
Through the vest which seems to hide 
them; 
As the radiant lines of morning 

Through the clouds ere they divide 
them; 10 

And this atmosphere divinest 
Shrouds thee whereso'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others; none beholds thee, 
But thy voice sounds low and tender 

Like the fairest, for it folds thee 15 

From the sight, that liquid splendor, 

And all feel, yet see thee never. 

As I feel now, lost for ever! 

Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 21 

Walk upon the winds with lightness, 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing! 

From Act IV 
song 

Here, oh, here 

We bear the bier 
Of the Father of many a cancelled year! 

Spectres we 

Of the dead Hours be, $ 

We bear Time to his tomb in eternity. 



SHELLEY 



479 



Strew, oh, strew 

Hair, not yew! 
Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew ! 

Be the faded flowers lo 

Of Death's bare bowers 
Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours ! 

Haste, oh, haste! 

As shades are chased 
Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue 
waste. 1 5 

We melt away 

Like dissolving spray 
From the children of a diviner day, 

With the lullaby 

Of winds that die 20 

On the bosom of their own harmony! 

From Act IV 

Demogorgon: This is the day, which 

down the void abysm 
At the Earth-born' s spell yawns for 

Heaven's despotism, 
And Conquest is dragged captive 

through the deep: 
Love, from its awful throne of patient 

power 
In the wise heart, from the last giddy 

hour 5 

Of dead endurance, from the slippery, 

steep, 
And narrow verge of crag-Hke agony, 

springs 
And folds over the world its healing wings. 

Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endur- 
ance, 
These are the seals of that most firm 
assurance 10 

Which bars the pit over Destruction's 
strength; 
And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, 
Mother of many acts and hours, should free 
The serpent that would clasp her with 
his length; 
These are the spells by which to re-assume 
An empire o'er the disentangled doom. 16 

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; 

To forgive wrongs darker than death or 
night; 
To defy Power, which seems omnipo- 
tent; 



To love, and bear; to hope till Hope 
creates 20 

From its own wreck the thing it contem- 
plates; 
Neither to change, nor falter, nor 
repent; 

This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be 

Good, great, and joyous, beautiful, and 
free; 

This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Vic- 
tory. 25 



ADONAIS 

I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear 

a head! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all 

years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure 
compeers, 5 

And teach them thine own sorrow! Say: 

"With me 
Died Adonais; till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall 
be 
An echo and a light unto eternity!" 

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when 
he lay, 10 

When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft 
which flies 
In darkness? where was lorn Urania 

When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enamored 
breath, 15 

Rekindled all the fading melodies. 
With which, like flowers that mock the 
corse beneath. 
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk 
of death. 

Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and 
weep ! 20 

Yet wherefore? Quench within their 

burning bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart 
keep 
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining 
sleep; 



48o 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



For he is gone where all things wise and 

fair 
Descend; — oh, dream not that the 

amorous Deep 25 

Will yet restore him to the vital air; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs 

at our despair. 

Most musical of mourners, weep again! 
Lament anew, Urania! — He died, — 
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain. 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his coun- 
try's pride, 31 
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide. 
Trampled and mocked with many a 

loathed rite 

Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified. 

Into the gulf of death; but his clear 

Sprite 35 

Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among 

the sons of light. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 
Not all to that bright station dared to 

climb; 
And happier they their happiness who 

knew. 
Whose tapers yet burn through that 

night of time 40 

In which suns perished; others more 

subUme, 
Struck by the envious wrath of man or 

God, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent 

prime ; 
And some yet live, treading the thorny 

road. 
Which leads, through toil and hate, to 

Fame's serene abode. 45 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one has 
perished, 

The nursling of thy widowhood, who 
grew, 

Like a pale flower by some sad maiden 
cherished, 

And fed with true love tears, instead 
of dew; 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 

Thy extreme^ hope, the loveliest and 
the last, 51 

The bloom, whose petals, nipped be- 
fore they blew, 

1 last. 



Died on the promise of the fruit, is 
waste; 
The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. 

To that high Capital, where kingly 

Death 55 

Keeps his pale court in beauty and 

decay. 
He came; and bought, with price of 

purest breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come 

away! 
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian 

day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while 

still 60 

He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 

He will awake no more, oh, never 
more ! — 

Within the twilight chamber spreads 
apace, 65 

The shadow of white Death, and at the 
door 

Invisible Corruption waits to trace 

His extreme way to her dim dwelling- 
place ; 

The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 

Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to 
deface 70 

So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law 
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal 
curtain draw. 

Oh, weep for Adonais! — The quick 

Dreams, 
The passion-winged Ministers of 

thought. 
Who were his flocks, whom near the 

living streams 75 

Of his young spirit he fed, and whom 

he taught 
The love which was its music, wander 

not, — 
Wander no more, from kindling brain 

to brain, 
But droop there, whence they sprung; 

and mourn their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after 

their sweet pain, 80 

They ne'er will gather strength, or find 

a home again. 



SHELLEY 



481 



And one with trembling hands clasps 

his cold head, 
And fans him with her moonlight 

wings, and cries: 
"Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is 

not dead; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint 

eyes, _ 85 

Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there 

lies 
A tear some Dream has loosened from 

his brain." 
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! 
She knew not 'twas her own; as with 

no stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept 

its rain. 90 

One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washed his light limbs as if embalming 

them; 
Another clipped her profuse locks, and 

threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem,^ 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls 

begem; 95 

Another in her wilful grief would break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to 

stem 
A greater loss with one which was more 

weak; 
And dull the barbed fire against his 

frozen cheek. 

Another Splendor on his mouth alit, roo 
That mouth, whence it was wont to 

draw the breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the 

guarded wit. 
And pass into the panting heart beneath 
With lightning and with music: the 

damp death 104 

Quenched its caress upon his icy lips; 
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapor, which the cold 

night clips, 
It flushed through his pale limbs, and 

passed to its eclipse. 

And others came . . . Desires and Ad- 
orations, 

Winged Persuasions and veiled Desti- 
nies, no 

' chaplet. 



Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmer- 
ing Incarnations 
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phan- 
tasies; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by 

the gleam 

Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 

Came in slow pomp; — the moving 

pomp might seem 116 

Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal 

stream. 

All he had loved, and moulded into 

thought. 
From shape, and hue, and odor, and 

sweet sound, 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair 

unbound, 121 

Wet with the tears which should adorn 

the ground. 

Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day ; 

Afar the melancholy thunder moaned; 

Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay; 125 

And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in 

their dismay. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless 

mountains. 
And feeds her grief with his remembered 

lay. 
And will no more reply to winds or 

fountains. 
Or amorous birds perched on the young 

green spray, 130 

Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing 

day; 
Since she can mimic not his lips, more 

dear 
Than those for whose disdain she 

pined away 
Into a shadow of all sounds: — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the 

woodmen hear. 135 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and 

she threw down 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn 

were. 
Or they dead leaves; since her delight 

is flown, 
For whom should she ha\-e waked the 

sullen vear? 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



To Phcebus was not Hyacinth so dear 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 141 
Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and 

sere 
Amid the faint companions of their 

youth. 
With dew all turned to tears; odor, to 

sighing ruth. 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale. 

Mourns not her mate with such melodi- 
ous pain; 146 

Not so the eagle, who like thee could 
scale 

Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's 
domain 

Her mighty youth with morning, doth 
complain 

Soaring and screaming round her empty 
nest, 150 

As Albion wails for thee: the curse of 
Cain 

Light on his head who pierced thy in- 
nocent breast, 
\nd scared the angel soul that was its 
earthly guest! 

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. 

But grief returns with the revolving 
year; _ 155 

The airs and streams renew their joy- 
ous tone; 

The ants, the bees, the swallows re- 
appear; 

Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 
Seasons' bier; 

The amorous birds now pair in every 
brake, 

And build their mossy homes in field 
and brere;^ 160 

And the green hzard, and the golden 
snake. 
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their 
trance awake. 

Through wood and stream and field and 

hill and ocean 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart 

has burst 
As it has ever done, with change and 

motion 165 

From the great morning of the world 

when first 

1 briar. 



God dawned on Chaos; in its stream 

immersed 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer 

light; 
All baser things pant with Ufe's sacred 

thirst; 
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's 

delight 170 

The beauty and the joy of their renewed 

might. 

The leprous corpse touched by this 

spirit tender 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle 

breath; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when 

splendor 
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine 

death 175 

And mock the merry worm that wakes 

beneath; 
Naught we know, dies. Shall that 

alone which knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the 

sheath 
By sightless- lightning? — th' intense 

atom glows 
A moment, then is quenched in a most 

cold repose. 180 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! 
Whence are we, and why are we? of 

what scene 
The actors or spectators? Great and 

mean 
Meet massed in death, who lends what 

life must borrow. 186 

As long as skies are blue, and fields are 

green, 
Evening must usher night, night urge 

the morrow. 
Month follow month with woe, and year 

wake year to sorrow. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
"Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless 

Mother, rise 191 

Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's 

core, 
A wound more fierce than his with 

tears and sighs." 

2 invisible. 



SHELLEY 



483 



And all the Dreams that watched 

Urania's eyes, 
And all the Echoes whom their sister's 

song 195 

Had held in holy silence, cried: 

"Arise!" 
Swift as a Thought by the snake 

Memory stung, 
From her ambrosial rest the fading 

Splendor sprung. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that 

springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild and 

drear 200 

The golden Day, which, on eternal 

wings. 
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow 

and fear 
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania; 
So saddened round her like an atmos- 
phere 205 
Of stormy mist; so swept her on her 

way 
Even to the mournful place where Adonais 

lay. 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped. 
Through camps and cities rough with 

stone, and steel. 
And human hearts, which to her aery 

tread 210 

Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
Palms of her tender feet where'er they 

fell: 
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more 

sharp than they. 
Rent the soft Form they never could 

repel. 
Whose sacred blood, like the young 

tears of May, 215 

Paved with eternal flowers that unde- 
serving way. 

In the death chamber for a moment 

Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living 

Might, 
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale 

light 220 

Flashed through those limbs, so late 

her dear delight. 



"Leave me not wild and drear and 
comfortless, 

As silent lightning leaves the starless 
night ! 

Leave me not!" cried Urania: her dis- 
tress 
Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, 
and met her vain caress. 225 

"Stay yet awhile! speak to me once 
again; 

Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; 

And in my heartless breast and burn- 
ing brain 

That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts 
else survive, 

With food of saddest memory kept 
alive, 230 

Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 

Of thee, my Adonais! I would give 

All that I am to be as thou now art I 
But I am chained to Time, and cannot 
thence depart! 

"Oh gentle child, beautiful as thou 

wert, 235 

Why didst thou leave the trodden paths 

of men 
Too soon, and with weak hands though 

mighty heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh where 

was then 
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn 

the spear? 240 

Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, 

when 
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent 

sphere. 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from 

thee like deer. 

"The herded wolves, bold only to pur- 
sue; 

The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the 
dead; 245 

The vultures to the conqueror's banner 
true, 

Who feed where Desolation first has 
fed. 

And whose wings rain contagion; — how 
they fled, 

When like Apollo, from his golden bow, 

The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 



484 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And smiled! — The spoilers tempt no 
second blow; 251 

They fawn on the proud feet that spurn 
them lying low. 

"The sun comes forth, and many rep- 
tiles spawn; 

He sets, and each ephemeral insect 
then 

Is gathered into death without a 
dawn, 255 

And the immortal stars awake again; 

So is it in the world of living men: 

A godlike mind soars forth, in its de- 
light 

Making earth bare and veiling heaven, 
and when 

It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or 
shared its light 260 

Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's 
awful night." 

Thus ceased she: and the mountain 

shepherds came. 
Their garlands sere, their magic man- 
tles rent; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is 
bent, 265 

An early but enduring monument. 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his 

song 
In sorrow; from her wilds lerne sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest 
wrong, 
A.nd love taught grief to fall like music 
from his tongue. 270 

Midst others of less note, came one 
frail Form, 

A phantom among men, companion- 
less 

As the last cloud of an expiring storm 

Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I 
guess. 

Had gazed on Nature's naked loveli- 
ness, 275 

Actason-like, and now he fled astray 

With feeble steps o'er the world's 
wilderness. 

And his own thoughts, along that rug- 
ged way. 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father 
and their prey. 



A pardlike^ Spirit beautiful and swift — 
A Love in desolation masked; — a 

Power 281 

Girt round with weakness; — it can 

scarce uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent 

hour; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
A breaking billow; — even whilst we 

speak 285 

Is it not broken? On the withering 

flower 
The killing sun smiles brightly; on a 

cheek 
The life can burn in blood, even while the 

heart may break. 

His head was bound with pansies over- 
blown. 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and 

blue; 290 

And a light spear topped with a cypress 

cone. 
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses 

grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday 

dew, 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasped it; 

of that crew 295 

He came the last, neglected and apart; 

A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the 

hunter's dart. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears; well knew 

that gentle band 299 

Who in another's fate now wept his own ; 
As, in the accents of an unknown land. 
He sung new sorrow ; sad Urania scanned 
The Stranger's mien, and murmured: 

"Who art thou?" 
He answered not, but with a sudden 

hand 
Made bare his branded and ensanguined 
_ brow, 305 

Which was like Cain's or Christ's — Oh! 

that it should be so ! 

What softer voice is hushed over the 

dead? 
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle 

thrown? 

' leopardlike. 



SHELLEY 



485 



What form leans sadly o'er the white 

death-bed, 
In mockery of monumental stone, 310 
The heavy heart heaving without a 

moan? 
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise. 
Taught, soothed, loved, honored the 

departed one. 
Let me not vex with inharmonious 
sighs 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacri- 
fice. 315 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh! 
What deaf and viperous murderer could 

crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of 

woe? 
The nameless worm would now itself 

disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and 

wrong, _ _ 321 

But what was howling in one breast 

alone. 
Silent with expectation of the song, 
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver 

lyre unstrung. 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy 

fame! 325 

Live! fear no heavier chastisement from 

me, 
Thou noteless blot on a remembered 

name! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to 

be! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
To spill the venom when thy fangs o'er- 

flow: 330 

Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling 

to thee; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret 

brow, 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou 

shalt — as now. 

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 
Far from these carrion kites that scream 

below; 335 

He wakes or sleeps with the enduring 

dead; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting 

now. — 



Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit 

shall flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence 

it came, 
A portion of the Eternal, which must 

glow _ 340 

Through time and change, unquench- 

ably the same. 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid 

hearth of shame. 

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth 

not sleep — 
He hath awakened from the dream of 

life— 
'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, 

keep 345 

With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 
And in mad trance strike with our 

spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings. — We decay 
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and 

grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by 

day, _ _ 350 

And cold hopes swarm like worms within 

our living clay 

He has outsoared the shadow of our 

night ; 
Envy and calumny and hate and pain. 
And that unrest which men miscall de- 
light, 
Can touch him not and torture not 

again; 355 

From the contagion of the world's slow 

stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey 

in vain; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased 

to burn, 
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented 

urn. 360 

He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, 

not he; 
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young 

Dawn, 
Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from 

thee 
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to 

moan! 365 



486 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, 

and thou Air, 
Which Hke a mourning veil thy scarf 

hadst thrown 
O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave 

it bare 
Even to the joyous stars which smile on 

its despair! 

He is made one with Nature: there is 
heard 370 

His voice in all her music, from the 
moan 

Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet 
bird; 

He is a presence to be felt and known 

In darkness and in light, from herb and 
stone, 

Spreading itself where'er that Power 
may move 375 

Which has wdthdrawTi his being to its 
own; 

Which wields the world with never- 
wearied love, 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it 
above. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely: he 

doth bear 380 

His part, while the one Spirit's plastic 

stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, 

compelling there 
All new successions to the forms they 

wear; 
Torturing th' unwilling dross that 

checks its flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may 

bear; _ 385 

And bursting in its beauty and its 

might 
From trees and beasts and men into the 

Heaven's light. 

The splendors of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished 

not; 
Like stars to their appointed height 

they climb, 390 

And death is a low mist which cannot 

blot 
The brightness it may veil. When 

lofty thought 



Lifts a young heart above its mortal 

lair, 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live 

there 395 

And move like winds of light on dark and 

stormy air. 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 
Rose from their thrones, built beyond 

mortal thought. 
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 400 
Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he 

fought 
And as he fell and as he lived and loved. 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, 
Arose; and Lucan, by his death ap- 
proved: 
Oblivion, as they rose, shrank like a thing 
reproved. 405 

And many more, whose names on Earth 

are dark, 
But whose transmitted efiiuence cannot 

die 
So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
"Thou art become as one of us," they 

cry, 410 

"It was for thee yon kingless sphere has 

long 
S\\amg blind in unascended majesty, 
Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. 
Assvune thy winged throne, thou Vesper 

of our throng!" 

Who mourns for Adonais? Oh come 

forth, 415 

Fond wretch! and know thyself and 

him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pen- 

diilous Earth; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious 

might 
Satiate the void circumference: then 

shrink 420 

Even to a point within our day and 

night; 
And keep thy heart light, lest it make 

thee sink, 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured 

thee to the brink. 



SHELLEY 



487 



Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, 
Oh! not of him, but of our joy: 'tis 

naught 425 

That ages, empires, and religions there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have 

wrought ; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow 

not 
Glory from those who made the world 

their prey; 
And he is gathered to the kings of 

thought 430 

Who waged contention with their time's 

decay. 
And of the past are all that cannot pass 

away. 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the Par- 
adise, 

The grave, the city, and the wilder- 
ness; 

And where its wrecks like shattered 
mountains rise, 435 

And flowering weeds and fragrant copses 
dress 

The bones of Desolation's nakedness 

Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall 
lead 

Thy footsteps to a slope of green access 

Where, like an infant's smile, over the 
dead 440 

A light of laughing flowers along the grass 
is spread. 

And grey walls moulder round, on which 
dull Time 

Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary 
brand; 

And one keen pyramid with wedge sub- 
lime, 

Pavilioning the dust of him who 
planned 445 

This refuge for his memory, doth stand 

Like flame transformed to marble; and 
beneath, 

A field is spread, on which a newer band 

Have pitched in Heaven's smile their 
camp of death. 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce ex- 
tinguished breath. 450 

Here pause: these graves are all too 

young as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrow which 

consigned 



Its charge to each; and if the seal is 

set, 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning 

mind, 
Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou 

find 455 

Thine own well full, if thou returnest 

home. 
Of tears and gall. From the world's 

bitter wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the 

tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to be- 
come? 

The One remains, the many change and 

pass; 460 

Heaven's light forever shines. Earth's 

shadows fly; 
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — 

Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which 

thou dost seek! 465 

Follow where all is fled! — Rome's azure 

sky. 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, 

are weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting 

truth to speak. 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, 

my Heart? 
Thy hopes are gone before: from all 

things here 470 

They have departed; thou shouldst now 

depart! 
A light is past from the revolving 

year. 
And man, and woman ; and what still is 

dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee 

wither. 
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind 

whispers near; 475 

'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither. 
No more let Life divide what Death can 

join together. 

That Light whose smile kindles the 

Universe, 
That Beauty in which all things work 

and move, 



488 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



That Benediction which the ecHpsing 
Curse 480 

Of birth can quench not, that sustaining 
Love 

Which, through the web of being 
bhndly wove 

By man and beast and earth and air and 
sea, 

Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors 
of 

The fire for which all thirst, now beams 
on me, 485 

Consuming the last clouds of cold mor- 
tality. 

The breath whose might I have invoked 

in song 
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is 

driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trem- 
bling throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest 

given ; 49° 

The massy earth and sphered skies 

are riven! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; 
Whilst, burning through the inmost 

veil of Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star, 494 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal 

are. 



FINAL CHORUS FROM HELLAS 

The world's great age begins anew, 

The golden years return. 
The earth doth like a snake renew 

Her winter weeds outworn: 
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires 
gleam, _ _ S 

Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 

From waves serener far; 
A new Peneus rolls his fountains 

Against the morning-star. 10 

Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep 
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 

A loftier Argo cleaves the main, 

Fraught with a later prize; 
Another Orpheus sings again, 15 

And loves, and weeps, and dies. 



A new Ulysses leaves once more 
Calypso for his native shore. 

Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, 
If earth Death's scroll must be! 

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 
Which dawns upon the free: 

Although a subtler Sphinx renew 

Riddles of death Thebes never knew. 



25 



Another Athens shall arise, 

And to remoter time 
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies. 

The splendor of its prime; 
And leave, if naught so bright may live, 
All earth can take or Heaven can give. 30 

Saturn and Love their long repose 
Shall burst, more bright and good 

Than all who fell, than One who rose. 
Than many unsubdued: 

Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, 35 

But votive tears and symbol flowers. 

Oh, cease! must hate and death return? 

Cease! must men kill and die? 
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn 

Of bitter prophecy. 40 

The world is weary of the past. 
Oh, might it die or rest at last! 



WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED 

When the lamp is shattered, 
The light in the dust lies dead; 

When the cloud is scattered, 
The rainbow's glory is shed. 

When the lute is broken, 5 

Sweet tones are remembered not; 

When the lips have spoken, 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 

As music and splendor 
Sur\nve not the lamp and the lute, 10 

The heart's echoes render 
No song when the spirit is mute: — 

No song but sad dirges. 
Like the ^^^nd through a ruined cell, 

Or the mournful surges 1 5 

That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

When hearts have once mingled. 
Love first leaves the well-built nest; 

The weak one is singled 
To endure what it once possessed. 20 



SHELLEY 



Love! who bewailest 
The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 
For your cradle, your home, and your 
bier? 

Its passions will rock thee 25 

As the storms rock the ravens on high: 

Bright reason will mock thee, 
Like the sun from a wintry sky. 

From thy nest every rafter 
Will rot, and thine eagle home 30 

Leave thee naked to laughter. 
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 



WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE 

Ariel to Miranda: — Take 
This slave of Music, for the sake 
Of him who is the slave of thee, 
And teach it all the harmony 
In which thou canst, and only thou, 5 
Make the delighted spirit glow. 
Till joy denies itself again, 
And, too intense, is turned to pain; 
For by permission and command 
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 10 

Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
Of more than ever can be spoken; 
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who. 
From life to Hfe, must still pursue 
Your happiness; — for thus alone 15 

Can Ariel ever find his own. 
From Prospero's enchanted cell. 
As the mighty verses tell, 
To the throne of Naples, he 
Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 20 

Flitting on, your prow before, 
Like a living meteor. 
When you die, the silent Moon, 
In her interlunar swoon. 
Is not -adder in her cell 25 

Than deserted Ariel. 
When you live again on earth, 
Like an unseen star of birth, 
Ariel guides you o'er the sea 
Of life from your nativity. 30 

Many changes have been run. 
Since Ferdinand and you begun 
Your course of love, and Ariel still 
Has tracked your steps, and served your 
wOl; 



Now, in humbler, happier lot, 35 

This is all remembered not; 

And now, alas! the poor sprite is 

Imprisoned, for some fault of his. 

In a body like a grave; — 

I'rom you he only dares to crave, 40 

For his service and his sorrow, 

A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought, 

To echo all harmonious thought. 

Felled a tree, while on the steep 45 

The woods were in their winter sleep. 

Rocked in that repose divine 

On the wdnd-swept Apennine; 

And dreaming, some of Autumn past, 

And some of Spring approaching fast, 50 

And some of April buds and showers. 

And some of songs in July bowers. 

And all of love; and so this tree, — 

Oh, that such our death may be! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 55 

To live in happier form again: 

From which, beneath Heaven's fairest 

star, 
The artist wrought this loved Guitar, 
And taught it justly to reply, 
To all who question skilfully, 60 

In language gentle as thine own; 
Whispering in enamored tone 
Sweet oracles of woods and dells. 
And summer winds in sylvan cells; 
For it had learned all harmonies 65 

Of the plains and of the skies. 
Of the forests and the mountains, 
And the many- voiced fountains; 
The clearest echoes of the hills, 
The softest notes of falling rills, 70 

The melodies of birds and bees. 
The murmuring of summer seas. 
And pattering rain, and breathing dew. 
And airs of evening; and it knew 
That seldom-heard mysterious sound, 75 
Which, driven on its diurnal round. 
As it floats through boundless day, 
Our world enkindles on its way — 
All this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 80 

The spirit that inhabits it; 
It talks according to the wit 
Of its companions; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before, 
By those who tempt it to betray 85 

These secrets of an elder day: 



490 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



But sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill, 
It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
For our beloved Jane alone. 90 



JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) 

From SLEEP AND POETRY 

Is there so small a range 
In the present strength of manhood, that 

the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly 
As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds, 
Paw up against the light, and do strange 

deeds 5 

Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us 

all? 
From the clear space of ether, to the small 
Breath of new buds unfolding? From 

the meaning 
Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender 

greening 9 

Of April meadows? Here her altar shone, 
E'en in this isle; and who could paragon 
The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
Its mighty self of convoluting sound. 
Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, 
Eternally around a dizzy void? 16 

Ay, in those days the muses were nigh 

cloyed 
With honors; nor had any other care 
Than to sing out and soothe their wavy 

hair. 
Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a 

schism 20 

Nurtured by foppery and barbarism. 
Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 
Men were thought wise who could not 

understand 
His glories; with a puling infant's force 
They swayed about upon a rocking-horse, 
And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal- 

souled! 26 

The winds of heaven blew, the ocean 

rolled 
Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The 

blue 
Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 
Of summer nights collected still to make 30 
The morning precious: beauty was awake! 



Why were ye not awake? But ye wete 

dead 
To things ye knew not of, — were closely 

wed 
To musty laws lined out with wretched 

rule 
And compass vile: so that ye taught a 

school 35 

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, 
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit. 
Their verses tallied. Easy was the task: 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the 

mask 
Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 40 

That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to 

his face. 
And did not know it, — no, they went 

about. 
Holding a poor, decrepit standard out. 
Marked with most flimsy mottoes, and in 

large 
The name of one Boileau ! 45 



From ENDYMION, BOOK I 

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: 
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 

breathing. s 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we 

wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to tlie earth, 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman 

dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened 

ways 10 

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of 

all. 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the 

moon. 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady 

boon 
For simple sheep: and such are dafifodils 15 
With the green world they live in; and 

clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest 

brake. 



KEATS 



491 



Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose 

blooms: 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead; 21 
All lovely tales that we have heard or 

read: 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 
Nor do we merely feel these essences 25 
For one short hour; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon. 
The passion poesy, glories infinite, 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 31 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom 

o'ercast. 
They alway must be with us, or we die. 

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 35 

The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own valleys: so I will begin 
Now while I cannot hear the city's din; 40 
Now while the early budders are just new. 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the 

year 45 

Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly 

steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hours, 
With streams that deepen freshly into 

bowers. 
Many and many a verse I hope to write. 
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and 

white, 50 

Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet 

peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 
See it half finished : but let Autumn bold, 55 
With universal tinge of sober gold, 
Be all about me when I make an end. 
And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness: 
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly 

dress 60 

My uncertain path with green, that I 

may speed 
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge has withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 5 
So haggard and so woe-begone? 

The squirrel's granary is full, 
And the harvest's done. 

1 see a lily on thy brow 

With anguish moist and fever dew; 10 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 

" I met a lady in the meads, 
Full beautiful — a faery's child; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 15 
And her eyes were wild. 

" I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;^ 

She looked at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 20 

" I set her on my pacing steed, 
And nothing else saw all day long; 

For sideways would she lean, and sing 
A faery's song. 

" She found me roots of relish sweet, 25 
And honey wild, and manna-dew. 

And sure in language strange she said — 
'I love thee true.' 

''She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept, and sighed full sore,3o 
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes, 

With kisses four. 

"And there she lulled me asleep, 
And there I dreamed — ah ! woe betide ! — 

The latest dream I ever dreamed 35 

On the cold hill's side. 

"I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all, 

Who cried — 'La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall!' 

1 girdle. 



492 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



"I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide; 

And I awoke, and found nie here 
On the cold hill's side. 



45 



''And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing." 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 
pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had 
drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had 
sunk : 
'Tis not through en\y of thy happy lot, 5 
But being too happy in thine happi- 
ness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the 
trees. 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows number- 
less, 
Singest of summer in full-throated 
ease. 10 

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been 
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved 
earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the countr}- green, 
Dance, and Provencal song, and sim- 
burnt mirth! 
O for a beaker full of tJie warm South, 15 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippo- 
crene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at tlie 
brim, 
And purple-stained mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world 
unseen. 
And with thee fade away into the 
forest dim: 20 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What thou among the leaves has never 
known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other 
groan ; 



Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey 
hairs, 25 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre- 
thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of 
sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs. 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous 
eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to- 
morrow. 30 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,^ 
But on the viewless"' wings of Poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes and 
retards : 
Already with thee! tender is the night, 35 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her 
throne. 
Clustered around by all her starry 
Fays; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the 
breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and wind- 
ing mossy ways. 40 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 
boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each 
sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month en- 
dows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree 
^^'ild; 45 

White hawthorn, and the pastoral 
eglantine; 
Fast fading violets co\'ered up in 
leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The commg musk-rose, full of dewy 
wine. 
The murmurous haunt of flies on 
summer eves. 50 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful 
Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused 
rhyme. 
To take into the air my quiet breath; 

1 leopards. - invisible. 



KEATS 



493 



Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 

To cease upon the midnight with no 
pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul 
abroad 
In such an ecstasy! * 

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears 
in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal 
liird! 
No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice 1 hear this passing night was 
heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a 
path 65 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, 
sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on 
the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands for- 
lorn. 70 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
Past the near meadows, over the still 
stream. 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried 
deep 
In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
Fled is that music: — Do I wake or 
sleep? 80 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness. 
Thou foster-child of silence and slow 
time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
A flowery tale. more sweetly than our 
rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy 
shape 5 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 



What men or gods are these? What 

maidens loth? 

What mad pursuit? What struggle to 

escape? 

What pipes and timbrels? What 

wild ecstasy? 10 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those un- 
heard 
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, 
play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth, ?jeneath the trees, thou canst 
not leave 15 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be 
bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou 
kiss. 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do 
not grieve; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not 
thy bliss. 
Forever wilt thou love, and she be 
fair! 2c 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring 
adieu: 
And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

Forever piping songs forever new; 
More happy love! more happy, happy 
love! 25 

Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, 
Forever panting, and forever young; 
All breathing human passion far above. 
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and 
cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching 
tongue. 30 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 
And all her silken flanks with garlands 
dressed? 
What little town by river or sea shore, 35 
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious 
morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er re- 
turn. 40 



494 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede^ 
Of marble men and maidens over- 
wrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden 
weed; 
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of 
thought 
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 

When old age shall this generation 
waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other 
woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou 
say'st, 
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that 
is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 
know. 50 



ODE ON MELANCHOLY 

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist 
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poison- 
ous wine; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed 
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proser- 
pine; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 5 
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth 
be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the 
downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 
For shade to shade will come too 
drowsily. 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the 
soul. 10 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
Sudden from heaven like a weeping 
cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 
And hides the green hills in an April 
shroud; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 1 5 
Or on the rainbow of the salt-sand wave, 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
Emprison her soft hand, and let her 
rave, 
And feed deep, deep upon her peer- 
less eyes. 20 

1 embroidery. 



She dwells with Beauty— Beauty that 
must die; 
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his 
lips 
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure 
nigh, 
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth 
sips: 
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25 

Veiled Melancholy has her sovran 
shrine, 
Though seen of none save him whose 
strenuous tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate 
fine: 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her 
might. 
And be among her cloudy trophies 
hung. 30 



TO AUTUMN 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the 
thatch-eaves run; 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage- 
trees, s 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the 
core; 
To swell the gourd, and plump the 
hazel shells 
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more. 
And still more, later flowers for the 

bees. 
Until they think warm days will never 
cease, 10 

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their 
clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy 
store? 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 
find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. 
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing 
wind; 15 

Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while 
thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its 
twined flowers: 



KEATS 



495 



And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 
Thou watchest the last oozings hours 
by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where 
are they? 
Think not of them, thou hast thy music 
too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying 
day, 25 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy 
hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats 
mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking as the light wind lives or 
dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from 
hilly bourn; 30 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with 

treble soft 
The red-breast whistles from a garden- 
croft; 
And gathering swallows twitter in the 
skies. 



LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern. 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 5 

Than mine host's Canary wine? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison? generous food! 
Dressed as though bold Robin Hood 10 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 15 

An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story. 
Said he saw you in your glory. 
Underneath a new-old sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 20 

And pledging Avith contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 



Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 25 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 



ROBIN HOOD 

No! those days are gone away, 
And their hours are old and gray. 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down- trodden pall 
Of the leaves of many years : 
Many times have winter's shears, 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces. 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 

No, the bugle sounds no more, 
And the twanging bow no more; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill; 
There is no mid-forest laugh, 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amazed to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon. 
Or the seven stars to light you. 
Or the polar ray to right you; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Robin bold; 
Never one, of all the clan, 
Thrimiming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent; 
For he left the merry tale 
Messenger for spicy ale. 



•25 



30 



Gone, the merry morris din; 
Gone, the song of Gamelyn; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the "grene shawe"; 
All are gone away and past! 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his turfed grave. 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days. 
She would weep, and he would craze: 



35 



40 



496 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



He would swear, for all his oaks, 
Fallen beneath the dockyard strokes, 
Have rotted on the briny seas; 45 

She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money! 

So it is: yet let us sing. 
Honor to the old bow-string! 50 

Honor to the bugle-horn! 
Honor to the woods unshorn! 
Honor to the Lincoln green! 
Honor to the archer keen! 
Honor to tight Little John, 55 

And the horse he rode upon! 
Honor to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood! 
Honor to Maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood-clan! 60 

Though their days have hurried by, 
Let us two a burden^ try. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
The hare limped trembling through the 

frozen grass. 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold: 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, 
while he told 5 

His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a censer old. 
Seemed taking flight for heaven, with- 
out a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his 
prayer he saith. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy 

man; 10 

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from 

his knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, 

wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem 

to freeze, 
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails: 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb or- 

at'ries, 16 

He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 

To think how they may ache in icy hoods 

and mails. 

' chorus. 



Northward he tunieth through a little 

door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's 

golden tongue 20 

Flattered to tears this aged man and 

poor; 
But no — already had his deathbell 

rung; 
The joys of all his life were said and 

sung: 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' 

Eve: 
Another way he went, and soon among 25 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's re- 
prieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake 

to grieve. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the pre- 
lude soft; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was 

wide. 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to 

chide: 31 

The level chambers, ready with their 

pride. 
Were glowing to receive a thousand 

guests: 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Stared, where upon their heads the 

cornice rests, 35 

With hair blown back, and wings put 

crosswise on their breasts. 

At length burst in the argent revelry. 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new stuffed, in youth, with 
triumphs gay 40 

Of old romance. These let us wish 

away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady 

there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that win- 
try day, 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly 
care. 
As she had heard old dames full many 
times declare. 45 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of 
delight. 



KEA TS 



497 



And soft adorings from their loves re- 
ceive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright: 50 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily 

white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but 
require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that 
they desire. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Made- 
line: _ 55 

The music, yearning like a God in 
pain. 

She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes 
divine. 

Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping 
train 

Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain 

Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 

And back retired; not cooled by high 
disdain, 61 

But she saw not: her heart was other- 
where : 
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest 
of the year. 

She danced along with vague, regardless 

eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick 

and short: 65 

The hallowed hour was near at hand: 

she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged 

resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and 

scorn. 
Hoodwinked with faery fancy; all 

amort, ^ 70 

Save to St. Agnes and her lambs un- 
shorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 

morn. 

So, purposing each m_oment to retire. 
She lingered still. Meantime, across the 

moors. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart 

on fire 75 

For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 

' deadened. 



Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, 

and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all un- 
seen; 80 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in 
sooth such things have been. 

He ventures in: let no buzzed whisper 

tell: 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart. Love's fev'rous 

citadel : 
For him, those chambers held bar- 
barian hordes, 85 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage: not one breast 

affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and 
in soul. 90 

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature 

came. 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's 

flame. 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus 

bland: 95 

He startled her; but soon she knew his 

face, 
And grasped his fingers in her palsied 

hand. 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee 

from this place; 
They are all here to-night, the whole 

bloodthirsty race! 

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish 
Hildebrand; 100 

He had a fever late, and in the fit 

He cursed thee and thine, both house 
and land: 

Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not 
a whit 

More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! 
flit! 

Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip 
dear, 105 

We're safe enough; here in this arm- 
chair sit, 



498 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And tell me how" — "Good Saints! not 
here, not here; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will 
be thy bier." 

He followed through a lowly arched 

way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 

plume; no 

And as she muttered " Well-a-day!" 
He found him in a little moonlight 

room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a 

tomb. 
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said 

he, 
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115 
Which none but secret sisterhood may 

see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 

piously." 

"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
Yet men will murder upon holy days: 
Thou must hold water in a witch's 
sieve, 120 

And be liege-lord of all the Elves and 

Fays, 
To venture so: it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve! 
God's help! my lady fair the conjurer 

plays 
This very night: good angels her de- 
ceive! 125 
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time 
to grieve." 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid 
moon. 

While Porphyro upon her face doth 
look. 

Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 

Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle- 
book, 130 

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when 
she told 

His lady's purpose; and he scarce could 
brook^ 

Tears, at the thought of those enchant- 
ments cold. 
And MadeUne asleep in lap of legends 
old. 13s 

1 check. 



Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 

rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained 

heart 
Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame 

start: 
"A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and 

dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men hke thee. Go, go! — 

I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that 

thou didst seem." 

"I will not harm her, by all saints I 

swear," 145 

Quoth Porphyro: "0 may I ne'er find 

grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its 

last prayer. 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 151 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's 

ears, 
And beard them, though they be more 

fanged than wolves and bears." 

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble 
soul? 

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church- 
yard thing,— 155 

Whose passing-bell may ere the mid- 
night toll; 

Whose prayers for thee, each morn 
and evening, 

Were never missed." — Thus plaining, 
doth she bring 

A gentler speech from burning Por- 
phyro; 

So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 

That Angela gives promise she will 
do 161 

Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal 
or woe. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there 

hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 

That he might see her beauty unespied, 



KEATS 



499 



And win perhaps that night a peerless 
bride, 

While legioned fairies paced the cover- 
let, 

And pale enchantment held her sleepy- 
eyed. 

Never on such a night have lovers 
met, 170 

Since Merlin paid his Demon all the mon- 
strous debt. 

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the 

dame: 
"All cates and dainties shall be stored 

there 
Quickly on this feast-night: by the 

tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to 

spare, 175 

For I am slow and feeble, and scarce 

dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience; 

kneel in prayer 
The while. Ah! thou must needs the 

lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among 

the dead." 180 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy 

fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly 

passed; 
The dame returned, and whispered in 

his ear 
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at 

last, 185 

Through many a dusky gallery, they 

gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, 

and chaste; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased 

amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in 

her brain. 

Her fait 'ring hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 191 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed 

maid. 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware: 
With silver taper's light, and pious 

care, 



She turned, and down the aged gossip 

led 195 

To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 

Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 

She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 

frayed^ and fled. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, 

died: 200 

She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 
As though a tongueless nightingale 

should swell 206 

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, 

in her dell. 

A casement high and triple-arched there 

was. 
All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of 

knot-grass, 210 

And diamonded with panes of quaint 

device. 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked 

wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand 

heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim em- 

blazonings, 215 

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood 

of queens and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry 

moon. 
And threw warm gules- on Madeline's 

fair breast. 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and 

boon; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 

pressed, 220 

And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 
She seemed a splendid angel, newly 

dressed. 
Save wings, for heaven: — Porphyro grew 

faint: 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 

mortal taint. 225 

' frightened. - red. 



Soo 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Anon his heart revives: her vespers 
done. 

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she 
frees; 

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; 

Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her 
knees: 230 

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea- 
weed, 

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and 
sees, 

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the 
charm is fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly 
nest, 235 

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed 
she lay, 

Until tiie poppied warmth of sleep 
oppressed 

Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued 
away ; 

Flown, like a thought, until the mor- 
row-day; 

Blissfully havened both from joy and 
pain ; 240 

Clasped like a missal where swart^ 
Paynims pray; 

Blinded alike from sunshine and from 
rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a 
bud again. 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so en- 
tranced, 

Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. 

And listened to her breathing, if it 
chanced 246 

To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 

Which when he heard, that minute did 
he bless, 

And breathed himself: then from the 
closet crept. 

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 

And over the hushed carpet, silent, 
stepped, 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, 
lo! — how fast she slept. 

Then by the bedside, where the faded 

moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 

' black. 



A table, and, half anguished, threw 
thereon 255 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and 
jet: — 

O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! 

The boisterous, midnight, festive clar- 
ion, 

The kettle-drum, and far-heard clar- 
ionet. 

Affray his ears, though but in dying 
tone: — 260 

The hall door shuts again, and all the noise 
is gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 

In blanched linen, smooth, and lav- 
endered, 

While he from forth the closet brought 
a heap 

Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 
gourd; _ 265 

With jellies soother than the creamy 
curd. 

And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon ; 

Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 

From Fez; and spiced dainties, every 
one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Leb- 
anon. 270 

These delicates he heaped with glowing 

hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they 

stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume 

light.— 275 

"And now, my love, my seraph fair, 

awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine 

eremite : 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' 

sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 

doth ache." 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved 
arm 280 

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her 
dream 

By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a mid- 
night charm 

Impossible to melt as iced stream: 



KEATS 



501 



The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 
gleam ; 

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet 
lies: 285 

It seemed he never, never could re- 
deem 

From such a steadfast spell his lady's 
eyes; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed 
phantasies. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,— 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten- 

derest be, 290 

He played an ancient ditty, long since 

mute. 
In Provence called, "La belle dame sans 

merci," 
Close to her ear touching the melody; — 
Wherewith disturbed she uttered a soft 

moan: 
He ceased — she panted quick — and 

suddenly 295 

Her blue aflfrayed eyes wide open 

shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
sculptured stone. 

Her eyes were open, but she still be- 
held, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her 

sleep: 
There was a painful change, that nigh 

expelled 300 

The blisses of her dream so pure and 

deep, 
At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
And moan forth witless words with 

many a sigh; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would 

keep; 
\Mio knelt, with joined hands and 

piteous eye, 305 

Fearing to move or speak, she looked so 

dreamingly. 

"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even 

now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 

ear. 
Made tunable with every sweetest 

vow; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and 

clear: 310 



How changed thou art! how pallid, 
chill, and drear! 

Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 

Those looks immortal, those complain- 
ings dear! 

Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not 
where to go." 315 

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing 

star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep 

repose; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet: meantime the frost- 
wind blows 
Like Love's alarum, pattering the sharp 
sleet 
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' 
moon hath set. 

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw- 
blown sleet: 325 

"This is no dream, my bride, my 
Madeline!" 

'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and 
beat: 

"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 

Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 
pine. — 

Cruel! what traitor could thee hither 
bring? 330 

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 

Though thou forsakest a deceived 
thing; — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick un- 
pruned wing." 

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely 

bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and 

vermeil dyed? 336 

Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy 

nest 340 

Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st 

well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 



502 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery 

land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 
The bloated wassailers will never 

heed: — 346 

Let us away, my love, with happy 

speed; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to 

see, — 
Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy 

mead: 
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 
For o'er the southern moors I have a 

home for thee." 351 

She hurried at his words, beset with 

fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all 

around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 

spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way 

they found.— 355 

In all the house was heard no human 

sound. 
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by 

each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, 

and hound. 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's up- 
roar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty 

floor. 360 

They glide, like phantoms, into the 

wide hall; 
Like phantoms, to the iron porch they 

glide; 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by his side: 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and 

shook his hide, 365 

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy 

slide: — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn 

stones ; — 
The key turns, and the door upon its 

hinges groans. 

And they are gone: ay, ages long 

ago ^ 370 

These lovers fled away into the storm. 



That night the Baron dreamt of many 

a woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade 

and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large cofiin- 

worm. 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the 

old _ _ 375 

Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face 

deform; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves 

told. 
For aye unsought for slept among his 

ashes cold. 



HYPERION 

A FRAGMENT 

BOOK I 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
Far sunken from the healthy breath of 

morn, 
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one 

star. 
Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone. 
Still as the silence round about his lair; 5 
Forest on forest hung about his head 
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was 

there. 
Not so much life as on a summer's day 
Robs not one light seed from the feathered 

grass. 
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it 

rest. 10 

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened 

more 
By reason of his fallen divinity 
Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her 

reeds 
Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips. 
Along the margin-sand large footmarks 

went, 15 

No further than to where his feet had 

strayed. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden 

ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, 

dead, 
Unsceptered; and his realmless eyes were 

closed ; 
While his bowed head seemed listening to 

the Earth, 20 

His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 



KEATS 



503 



It seemed no force could wake him from 

his place; 
But there came one, who with a kindred 

hand 
Touched his wide shoulders, after bending 

low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it 

not. 25 

She was a Goddess of the infant world; 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 
Had stood a pigmy's height: she would 

have ta'en 
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; 
Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel. 30 
Her face was large as that of Memphian 

sphinx, 
Pedestaled haply in a palace court, 
-When sages looked to Egypt for their lore. 
But oh! how unlike marble was that face; 
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 35 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. 
There was a listening fear in her regard, 
As if calamity had but begun; 
As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen 

rear 40 

Was with its stored thunder laboring up. 
One hand she pressed upon that aching 

spot 
Where beats the human heart, as if just 

there. 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain; 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 45 
She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she 

spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ tone: 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble 

tongue 
Would come in these like accents ; oh how 

frail 50 

To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 
"Saturn, look up! — though wherefore, 

poor old King? . 
I have no comfort for thee, no, not one: 
I cannot say, 'O wherefore sleepest thou? ' 
For hea^•en is parted from thee, and the 

earth _ 55 

Knows thee not, thus afilicted, for a 

God; 
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise, 
Has from thy scepter passed; and all the 

air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 



Thy thunder, conscious of the new com- 
mand, 60 

Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house; 

And thy sharp lightning in unpractised 
hands 

Scorches and burns our once serene do- 
main. 

O aching time! O moments big as years! 

All as ye pass swell out the monstrous 
truth, 65 

And press it so upon our weary griefs 

That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 

Saturn, sleep on: — O thoughtless, why 
did I 

Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? 

Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes? 70 

Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep." 
As when, upon a tranced summer night. 

Those green-robed senators of mighty 
woods. 

Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest 
stars. 

Dream, and so dream all night without a 
stir, _ 75 

Save from one gradual solitary gust 

Which comes upon the silence, and dies 
off. 

As if the ebbing air had but one wave: 

So came these words and went; the while 
in tears 

She touched her fair large forehead to the 
ground, 80 

Just where her falling hair might be out- 
spread 

A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 

One moon, with alteration slow, had shed 

Her silver seasons four upon the night. 

And still these two were postured motion- 
less, 85 

Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 

The frozen God still couchant on the 
earth, 

And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet: 

Until at length old Saturn lifted up 

His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom 
gone, Qo 

And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, 

And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then 
spake. 

As with a palsied tongue, and while his 
beard 

Shook horrid with such aspen-malady: 

"O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 05 

Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face; 



504 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Look up, and let me see our doom in it; 
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
Is Saturn's; tell me, if thou hear'st the 

voice 
Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkling brow. 
Naked and bare of its great diadem, loi 
Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had 

power 
To make me desolate? whence came the 

strength? 
How was it nurtured to such bursting 

forth, 
While Fate seemed strangled in my 

nervous grasp? 105 

But it is so; and I am smothered up, 
And buried from all godlike exercise 
Of influence benign on planets pale. 
Of admonitions to the winds, and seas, 
Of peaceful sway above man's harvest- 
ing, _ _ no 
And all those acts which Deity supreme 
Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 
Away from my own bosom: I have left 
My strong identity, my real self. 
Somewhere between the throne, and where 

I sit 115 

Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, 

search ! 
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them 

round 
Upon all space: space starred, and lorn of 

Space regioned with life-air; and barren 

void; 
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. 120 
Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou 

seest 
A certain shape or shadow, making way 
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 
A heaven he lost erewhile: it must — it 

must 
Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be 

King. _ 125 

Yes, there must be a golden victory; 
There must be Gods thrown down, and 

trumpets blown 
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 
Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, 
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 130 
Of strings in hollow shells; and there 

shall be 
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
Of the sky-children; I will give com- 
mand : 



Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?" 

This passion lifted him upon his feet, 135 
And made his hands to struggle in the air, 
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with 

sweat, 
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing 
_ deep; _ 139 

A little time, and then again he snatched 
Utterance thus: — "But cannot I create? 
Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth 
Another world, another universe. 
To overbear and crumble this to nought? 
Where is another chaos? Where? " — That 

word 145 

Found way unto Olympus, and made 

quake 
The rebel three. — Thea was startled up, 
And in her bearing was a sort of hope, 
As thus she quick- voiced spake, yet full of 

awe: 
"This cheers our fallen house: come to 

our friends, 150 

Saturn! come away, and give them 

heart; 

1 know the covert, for thence came I 

hither." 
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she 

went 
With backward footing through the shade 

a space : 
He followed, and she turned to lead the 

way _ _ 155 

Through aged boughs, that yielded like the 

mist 
Which eagles cleave upmounting from 

their nest. 
Meanwhile in other realms big tears 

were shed, 
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of 

scribe; 160 

The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison- 
bound, 
Groaned for the old allegiance once more. 
And listened in sharp pain for Saturn's 

voice. 
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still 

kept 
His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty; 165 
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
Still sat, snuffed the incense, teeming up 
From man to the sun's God; yet un- 

secure : 



KEATS 



SOS 



For as among us mortals omens drear 
Fright and perplex, so also shuddered 
he, — 170 

Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated 

screech, 
Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell, 
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp; 
But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve, 175 
Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace 

bright, 
Bastioned with pyramids of glowing gold. 
And touched with shade of bronzed obe- 
lisks, 
Glared a blood-red through all its thou- 
sand courts. 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries; 180 
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
Flushed angerly: while sometimes eagle's 

wings, 
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
Darkened the place; and neighing steeds 

were heard, 
Not heard before by Gods or wondering 
men. 185 

Also, when he would taste the spicy 

wreaths 
Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred 

hills, 
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick: 
And so, when harbored in the sleepy 
west, 190 

After the full completion of fair day, — 
For rest divine upon exalted couch 
And slumber in the arms of melody. 
He paced away the pleasant hours of ease 
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall; 
While far within each aisle and deep re- 
cess, 196 
His winged minions in close clusters stood. 
Amazed and full of fear; like anxious men 
Who on wide plains gather in panting 

troops, 
When earthquakes jar their battlements 
and towers. 200 

Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy 

trance. 
Went step for step with Thea through the 

woods, 
Hyperion, lea\ang twilight in the rear. 
Came slope upon the threshold of the west ; 
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew 
ope 205 



In smoothest silence, save what solemn 

tubes. 
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of 

sweet 
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed 

melodies; 
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape. 
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye. 
That inlet to severe magnificence 211 

Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 
He entered, but he entered full of wrath; 
His flaming robes streamed out beyond his 

heels, 
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, 215 
That scared away the meek ethereal 

Hours 
And made their dove- wings tremble. On 

he flared. 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to 

vault. 
Through bowers of fragrant and en- 
wreathed light. 
And diamond-paved lustrous long ar- 
cades, 220 
Until he reached the great main cupola; 
There standing fierce beneath, he stamped 

his foot. 
And from the basements deep to the high 

towers 
Jarred his own golden region; and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had 

ceased, 225 

His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb, 
To this result: "0 dreams of day and 

night ! 
O monstrous forms ! effigies of pain ! 
O specters busy in a cold, cold gloom! 

lank-eared Phantoms of black- weeded 

pools! 230 

Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye? 

why 
Is my eternal essence thus distraught 
To see and to behold these horrors new? 
Saturn is fallen; am I too to fall? 
Am I to leave this haven of my rest, 235 
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime. 
This calm luxuriance of blissful light. 
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes. 
Of all my lucent empire? It is left 
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 240 
The blaze, the splendor, and the sym- 
metry', 

1 cannot see — but darkness, death and 

darkness. 



5o6 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Even here, into my center of repose, 
The shady visions come to domineer. 
Insult, and blind, and stifle up my 

pomp.^ 245 

Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes ! 
Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
I will advance a terrible right arm. 
Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel 

Jove, 
And bid old Saturn take his throne 

again." — 250 

He spake and ceased, the while a heavier 

threat 
Held struggle with his throat, but came 

not forth; 
For as in theatres of crowded men 
Hubbub increases more they call out 

"Hush!" 
So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms 

pale 255 

Bestirred themselves, thrice horrible and 

cold; 
And from the mirrored level where he stood 
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
At this, through all his bulk an agony 
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the 

crown, 260 

Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 
Making slow way, with head and neck con- 
vulsed 
From over-strained might. Released, he 

fled 
To the eastern gates, and full six dewy 

hours 
Before the dawn in season due should 

blush, 265 

He breathed fierce breath against the 

sleepy portals. 
Cleared them of heavy vapors, burst them 

wide 
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
Each day from east to west the heavens 

through, 270 

Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds; 
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and 

hid. 
But ever and anon the glancing spheres, 
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 
Glowed through, and wrought upon the 

muffling dark 275 

Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir 

deep 
Up to the Zenith, — hieroglyphics old, 



Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 
Then living on the earth, with laboring 

thought 
Won from the gaze of many centuries: 280 
Now lost, save what we find on remnants 

huge 
Of stone, or marble swart; their import 

gone. 
Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings 

this orb 
Possessed for glory, two fair argent wings. 
Ever exalted at the God's approach: 285 
And now, from forth the gloom their 

plumes immense 
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were; 
While still the dazzling globe maintained 

eclipse, 
Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
Fain would he have commanded, fain took 

throne 290 

And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
He might not: — No, though a primeval 

God: 
The sacred seasons might not be disturbed. 
Therefore the operations of the dawn 
Stayed in their birth, even as here 'tis 

told. 295 

Those silver wings expanded sisterly, 
Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide 
Opened upon the dusk demesnes of night; 
And the bright Titan, frenzied with new 

woes. 
Unused to bend, by hard compulsion 

bent 300 

His spirit to the sorrow of the time; 
And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
Upon the boundaries of day and night, 
He stretched himself in grief and radiance 

faint. 
There as he lay, the Heaven with its 

stars 305 

Looked down on him with pity, and the 

voice 
Of Coelus, from the universal space, 
Thus whispered low and solemn in his 

ear: 
"O brightest of my children dear, earth- 
born 
And sky-engendered. Son of Mysteries 310 
All unrevealed even to the powers 
Which met at thy creating; at whose joys 
And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 
I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and 

whence; 



KEATS 



507 



And at the fruits thereof what shapes they 

be, _ 315 

Distinct, and visible; symbols divine, 
Manifestations of that beauteous life 
Diffused unseen throughout eternal space; 
Of these new-formed art thou, O brightest 

child! 
Of these, thy brethren and the God- 
desses! 320 
There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 
Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, 
I saw my first-born tumbled from his 

throne! 
To me his arms were spread, to me his 

voice 
Found way from forth the thunders round 

his head! 325 

Pale wox I, and in vapors hid my face. 
Art thou, too, near such doom? vague fear 

there is: 
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 
Divine ye were created, and divine 
In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturbed, 330 
Unruffled like high Gods, ye lived and 

ruled: 
Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath; 
Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
I see them, on the mortal world beneath. 
In men who die. — This is the grief, O 

Son! _ 335 

Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall! 
Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable, 
As thou canst move about, an evident 

God; 
And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
Ethereal presence: — I am but a voice; 340 
My life is but the life of winds and tides ; 
No more than winds and tides can I 

avail : — 
But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the 

van 
Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's 

barb 
Before the tense string murmur. — To the 

earth! _ 345 

For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his 

woes. 
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright 

sun, 
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse." — 
Ere half this region-whisper had come 

down, 
Hyperion arose, and on the stars 350 

Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide 



Until it ceased; and still he kept them 

wide: 
And still they were the same bright, 

patient stars. 
Then with a slow incline of his broad 

breast. 
Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 355 

Forward he stooped over the airy shore. 
And plunged all noiseless into the deep 

night. 

SONNETS 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO 
CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travelled in the realms of 
gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms 

seen; 
Round many western islands have I 
been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his 

demesne; 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 

bold: 

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his 

ken; 10 

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 

Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY 
CEASE TO BE 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming 
brain. 
Before high piled books, in charact'ry. 
Hold like rich garners the full-ripened 
grain; 
When I behold, upon the night's starred 
face, 5 

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And think that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows, with the magic hand of 
chance; 



5o8 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! 

That I shall never look upon thee 
more, lo 

Never have relish in the faery power 

Of unreflecting love!— then on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. 



BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE 
STEADFAST AS THOU ART 

Bright star! would I were steadfast as 
thou art— 
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the 
night. 
And watching, with eternal Hds apart, 

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
The moving waters at their priestlike 
task 5 

Of pure ablution round earth's human 
shores. 
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
Of snow upon the mountains and the 
moors — 
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable. 
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening 
breast, lo 

To feel forever its soft fall and swell. 

Awake forever in a sweet unrest. 
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844) 
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

A NAVAL ODE 

Ye mariners of England 

That guard our native seas. 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe. 

And sweep through the deep. 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. i 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave!— 

For the deck it was their field of fame. 

And Ocean was their grave: 



Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 15 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep. 
While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 20 

Britannia needs no bulwark. 

No towers along the steep; 

Her march is o'er the mountain waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 25 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore. 

When the stormy winds do blow; 

When the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. ,30 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn. 

Till danger's troubled night depart 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean- warrior s ! 35 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 40 



THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852) 

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING 

The time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The light that lies 

In woman's eyes. 
Has been my heart's undoing. 5 

Though Wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scorned the lore she brought me, 

My only books 

Were woman's looks, 
An(J folly's all they've taught me. 10 

Her smile when Beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted, 

Like him the Sprite, 

Whom maids by night 
Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 15 
Like him, too, Beauty won me. 
But while her eyes were on me; 

If once their ray 

Was turned away. 
Oh, winds could not outrun me. 20 



MOORE 



509 



And are those follies going? 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold or wise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing? 25 

No, vain, alas! th' endeavor 
From bonds so sweet to sever; 

Poor Wisdom's chance 

Against a glance 
Is now as weak as ever. 30 



OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT 

Oft, in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me; 

The smiles, the tears, 5 

Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken; 
The eyes that shone. 
Now dimmed and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken! 10 
Thus, in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 15 

The friends, so linked together, 
I've seen around me fall. 

Like leaves in wintry weather; 
I feel like one 

Who treads alone 20 

Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled. 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 25 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
TARA'S HALLS 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul w^ere fled. 



So sleeps the pride of former days, 5 

So glory's thrill is o'er. 
And hearts that once beat high for praise 

Now feel that pulse no more! 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 10 

The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 15 

To show that still she lives. 



OH, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME! 

ROBERT EMMET 

Oh, breathe not his name ! let it sleep in the 

shade. 
Where cold and unhonored his relics are 

laid; 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we 

shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass 

o'er his head. 

But the night-dew that falls, though in 
silence it weeps, 5 

Shall brighten with verdure the grave 
where he sleeps; 

And the tear that we shed, though in secret 
it rolls. 

Shall long keep his memory green 
in our souls. 



CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 
AT CORUNNA 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hur- 
ried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 
The sods with our bayonets turning; 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 



5IO 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound 
him, lo 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that 

was dead, 15 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hollowed his narrow 
bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread 
o'er his head. 
And we far away on the billow! 20 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's 
gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep 
on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid 
him. 

But half of our weary task was done 25 
When the clock struck the hour for re- 
tiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and 
gory; _ 30 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a 
stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



THOMAS HOOD (1789-1845) 
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 

One more Unfortunate, 

Weary of breath. 
Rashly importunate, 

Gone to her death! 

Take her up tenderly. 
Lift her with care; 

Fashioned so slenderly. 
Young, and so fair! 



Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements; 
Whilst the wave constantly 

Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly. 

Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully; 
Think of her mournfully. 

Gently and humanly. 
Not of the stains of her; 
All that remains of her 

Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 

Rash and undutiful: 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family — 

Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 

Escaped from the comb. 

Her fair auburn tresses; 

Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father? 

Who was her mother? 
Had she a sister? 

Had she a brother? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other? 

Alas! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun! 
Oh, it was pitiful! 
Near a whole city full, 

Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 

Feelings had changed: 
Love, by harsh evidence. 
Thrown from its eminence; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 



IS 



25 



30 



35 



40 



45 



SO 



55 



HOOD 



5" 



Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a light 
From window to casement, 
From garret to basement, 60 

She stood with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver; 
But not the dark arch, 65 

Or the black flowing river: 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery. 

Swift to be hurled — ■ 
Anywhere, anywhere 70 

Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly — 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran — 
Over the brink of it, 75 

Picture it — think of it. 

Dissolute Man! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 80 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 

Young, and so fair! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 

Stiffen too rigidly, 85 

Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them; 
And her eyes, close them. 

Staring so blindly! 

Dreadfully staring 90 

Through muddy impurity. 

As when with the daring 

Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, , 95 

Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity. 
Burning insanity. 

Into her rest. — 
Cross her hands humbly, 100 

As if pra}ing dumbly, 

Over her breast ! 



Owning her weakness. 

Her evil behavior, 
And leaving with meekness. 

Her sins to her Savior! 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt." 

"Work! work! work! 

While the cock is crowing aloof ! 
And work — -work — work, 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's Oh! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work! 

" Work — work — work, 

Till the brain begins to swim; 
Work — work — work , 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam. 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! 

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! 
It is not linen you're wearing out 

But human creatures' lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A Shroud as well as a Shirt. 



15 



25 



30 



"But why do I talk of Death? 

That Phantom of grisly bone, 
I hardly fear its terrible shape, 35 

It seems so like my o\\n — 
It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fasts I keep; 
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear. 

And flesh and blood so cheap! 4c 



512 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



" Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shattered roof — this naked floor — 45 

A table — ^a broken chair — ■ 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there! 

" Work — work — ^work ! 

From weary chime to chime, 50 

Work — work — work , 

As prisoners work for crime! 
Band, and gusset, and seam. 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain be- 
numbed, 55 

As well as the weary hand. 

" Work — work — work. 

In the dull December light, 
And work — work — work, 

When the weather is warm and bright — 
While underneath the eaves 61 

The brooding swallows cling 
As if to show me their sunny backs 

And twit me with the spring. 

"Oh I but to breathe the breath 65 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet; 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 70 

Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal. 

"Oh! but for one short hour! 

A respite however brief! 
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 75 

But only time for Grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread!" 80 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! _ 85 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
Would that its tone could reach the 
Rich!— 

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" 



CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834) 

CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE AND 
THIRTY YEARS AGO 

In Mr. Lamb's "Works," published a 
year or two since, I find a magnificent 
eulogy on my old school,^ such as it 
was, or now appears to him to have been, 
between the years 1782 and 1789. It 
happens, very oddly, that my own stand- 
ing at Christ's was nearly corresponding 
with his; and, with all gratitude to him 
for his enthusiasm for the cloisters, I 
think he has contrived to bring to- [10 
gether whatever can be said in praise of 
them, dropping all the other side of the 
argument most ingeniously. 

I remember L. at school; and can well 
recollect that he had some peculiar ad- 
vantages, which I and others of his school- 
fellows had not. His friends lived in 
town, and were near at hand; and he had 
the privilege of going to see them, almost 
as often as he wished, through some [20 
invidious distinction, which was denied 
to us. The present worthy sub-treasurer 
to the Inner Temple can explain how that 
happened. He had his tea and hot rolls 
in a morning, while we were battening 
upon our quarter of a penny loaf — our 
crug — moistened with attenuated small 
beer, in wooden piggins, smacking of the 
pitched leathern jack it was poured from. 
Our Monday's milk porritch, blue [30 
and tasteless, and the pease soup of Satur- 
day, coarse and choking, were enriched 
for him with a sHce of "extraordinary 
bread and butter," from the hot-loaf of 
the Temple. The Wednesday's mess of 
millet, somewhat less repugnant — (we 
had three banyan to four meat days in the 
week) — was endeared to his palate with 
a lump of double-refined, and a smack 
of ginger (to make it go down the [40 
more glibly) or the fragrant cinnamon. 
In Heu of our half-pickled Sundays, or 
quite fresh boiled beef on Thursdays 
(strong as caro equina), with detestable 
marigolds floating in the pail to poison 
the broth — -our scanty mutton crags on 
Fridays — and rather more savory, but 

1 Recollections of Christ's Hospital. 



LAMB 



513 



grudging, portions of the same flesh, 
rotten-roasted or rare, on the Tuesdays 
(the only dish which excited our appe- [50 
tites, and disappointed our stomachs, in 
almost equal proportion) — he had his hot 
plate of roast veal, or the more tempting 
griskin (exotics unknown to our palates), 
cooked in the paternal kitchen (a great 
thing), and brought him daily by his 
maid or aunt! I remember the good old 
relative (in whom love forbade pride) 
squatting down upon some odd stone in a 
by-nook of the cloisters, disclosing the [60 
viands (of higher regale than those cates 
which the ravens ministered to the Tish- 
bite); and the contending passions of L. 
at the unfolding. There was love for the 
bringer; shame for the thing brought, 
and the manner of its bringing; sympathy 
for those who were too many to share in 
it; and, at top of all, hunger (eldest, 
strongest of the passions!) predominant, 
breaking down the stony fences of [70 
shame, and awkwardness, and a troubling 
over-consciousness. 

I was a poor friendless boy. My par- 
ents, and those who should care for me, 
were far away. Those few" acquaintances 
of theirs, which they could reckon upon 
being kind to me in the great city, after 
a little forced notice, which they had the 
grace to take of me on my first arrival 
in town, soon grew tired of my holiday [80 
visits. They seemed to them to recur too 
often, though I thought them few enough; 
and, one after another, they all failed me, 
and I felt myself alone among six hundred 
playmates. 

the cruelty of separating a poor lad 
from his early homestead! The yearnings 
which I used to have towards it in those 
imfledged years! How, in my dreams, 
would my native towm (far in the west) [90 
come back, with its church, and trees, 
and faces! How I would wake weeping, 
and in the anguish of my heart exclaim 
upon sweet Calne in Wiltshire! 

To this late hour of my life, I trace im- 
pressions left by the recollection of those 
friendless holidays. The long warm days 
of summer never return but they bring 
with them a gloom from the haunting 
memor}' of those whole-day-leaves, [100 
when, by some strange arrangement, we 



were turned out, for the live-long day, 
upon our own hands, whether we had 
friends to go to, or none. I remember 
those bathing excursions to the New 
River, which L. recalls with such reUsh, 
better, I think, than he can — for he was 
a home-seeking lad, and did not much 
care for such water-pastimes: — How mer- 
rily we would sally forth into the [no 
fields; and strip under the first warmth of 
the sun; and wanton Uke young dace in 
the streams; getting us appetites for noon, 
which those of us that were penniless 
(our scanty morning crust long since ex- 
hausted) had not the means of allaying — 
while the cattle, and the birds, and the 
fishes, were at feed about us, and we had 
nothing to satisfy our cravings — the very 
beauty of the day, and the exercise [120 
of the pastime, and the sense of liberty, 
setting a keener edge upon them! — How 
faint and languid, finally, we would re- 
turn, towards nightfall, to our desired 
morsel, half-rejoicing, half-reluctant, that 
the hours of our uneasy liberty had 
expired ! 

It was worse in the days of winter, to 
go prowling about the streets objectless — 
shivering at cold windows of print- [130 
shops, to extract a little amusement; or 
haply, as a last resort, in the hope of a 
little novelty, to pay a fifty-times repeated 
visit (where our individual faces should 
be as well known to the warden as those 
of his own charges) to the Lions in the 
Tower — to whose levee, by courtesy 
immemorial, we had a prescriptive title 
to admission. 

L.'s governor (so we called the pa- [140 
tron who presented us to the foundation) 
lived in a manner under his paternal roof. 
Any complaint which he had to make 
was sure of being attended to. This was 
imderstood at Christ's, and was an 
effectual screen to him against the severity 
of masters, or worse tyranny of the moni- 
tors. The oppressions of these young 
brutes are heart-sickening to call to recol- 
lection. I have been called out of [150 
my bed, and waked for the purpose, in 
the coldest winter nights — and this not 
once, but night after night — in my shirt, 
to receive the discipline of a leathern 
thong, with eleven other sufferers, because 



514 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



it pleased my callow overseer, when there 
has been any talking heard after we were 
gone to bed, to make the six last beds in 
the dormitory, where the youngest chil- 
dren of us slept, answerable for an [i6o 
offence they neither dared to commit, 
nor had the power to hinder. — The same 
execrable tyranny drove the younger part 
of us from the fires, when our feet were 
perishing with snow; and under the 
cruellest penalties, forbade the indulgence 
of a drink of water, when we lay in sleep- 
less summer nights, fevered with the 
season, and the day's sports. 

There was one H , who, I [170 

learned, in after days, was seen expiating 
some maturer offence in the hulks. (Do I 
flatter myself in fancying that this might 
be the planter of that name, who suf- 
fered — at Nevis, I think, or St. Kitts, 
— some few years since? My friend 
Tobin was the benevolent instrument of 
bringing him to the gallows.) This petty 
Nero actually branded a boy who had 
offended him, with a red-hot iron; and [180 
nearly starved forty of us, with exacting 
contributions, to the one half of our bread, 
to pamper a young ass, which, incredible 
as it may seem, with the connivance of 
the nurse's daughter (a young flame of 
his) he had contrived to smuggle in, and 
keep upon the leads of the ward, as they 
called our dormitories. This game went 
on for better than a week, till the foolish 
beast, not able to fare well but he [190 
must cry roast meat — happier than Calig- 
ula's minion, could he have kept his own 
counsel — but, foolisher, alas! than any of 
his species in the fables— waxing fat, and 
kicking, in the fulness of bread, one un- 
lucky minute would needs proclaim his 
good fortune to the world below; and, 
laying out his simple throat, blew such a 
ram's horn blast, as (toppling down the 
walls of his own Jericho) set con- [200 
cealment any longer at defiance. The 
client was dismissed, with certain atten- 
tions, to Smithfield; but I never under- 
stood that the patron underwent any 
censure on the occasion. This was in the 
stewardship of L.'s admired Perry. 

Under the same facile administration, 
can L. have forgotten the cool impunity 
with which the nurses used to carry away 



openly, in open platters, for their own [210 
tables, one out of two of every hot joint, 
which the careful matron had been seeing 
scrupulously weighed out for our dinners? 
These things were daily practised in that 
magnificent apartment, which L. (grown 
connoisseur since, we presume) praises 
so highly for the grand paintings "by 
Verrio, and others," with which it is 
"hung round and adorned." But the 
sight of sleek, well-fed blue-coat boys [220 
in pictures was, at that time, I believe, 
little consolatory to him, or us, the living 
ones, who saw the better part of our pro- 
visions carried away before our faces by 
harpies; and ourselves reduced (with the 
Trojan in the hall of Dido) 

"To feed our mind with idle portraiture." 

L. has recorded the repugnance of the 
school to gags, or the fat of fresh beef 
boiled ; and sets it down to some super- [230 
stition. But these unctuous morsels are 
never grateful to young palates (chil- 
dren are universally fat-haters) and in 
strong, coarse, boiled meats, unsalted, are 
detestable. A gag-eater in our time was 
equivalent to a goul, and held in equal 
detestation. suffered under the im- 
putation. 



'Twas said. 

He ate strange flesh." 240 

He was observed, after dinner, carefully 
to gather up the remnants left at his 
table (not many, nor very choice frag- 
ments, you may credit me)— and, in an 
especial manner, these disreputable mor- 
sels, which he would convey away, and 
secretly stow in the settle that stood at 
his bed-side. None saw when he ate 
them. It was rumored that he privately 
devoured them in the night. He was [250 
watched, but no traces of such midnight 
practices were discoverable. Some re- 
ported, that, on leave-days, he had been 
seen to carry out of the bounds a large 
blue check handkerchief, full of some- 
thing. This then must be the accursed 
thing. Conjecture next was at work to 
imagine how he could dispose of it. 
Some said he sold it to the beggars. This 
belief generally prevailed. He went [260 
about moping. None spake to him. No 



LAMB 



515 



one would play with him. He was ex- 
communicated; put out of the pale of 
the school. He was too powerful a boy 
to be beaten, but he underwent every 
mode of that negative punishment, which 
is more grievous than many stripes. Still 
he persevered. At length he was ob- 
served by two of his school-fellows, who 
were determined to get at the secret, [270 
and had traced him one leave-day for 
that purpose, to enter a large worn-out 
building, such as there exist specimens 
of in Chancery Lane, which are let out to 
various scales of pauperism, with open 
door, and a common staircase. After 
him they silently slunk in, and followed 
by stealth up four flights, and saw him 
tap at a poor wicket, which was opened 
by an aged woman, meanly clad. [280 
Suspicion was now ripened into certainty. 
The informers had secured their victim. 
They had him in their toils. Accusation 
was formally preferred, and retribution 
most signal was looked for. Mr. Hatha- 
way, the then steward (for this happened 
a little after my time), with that patient 
sagacity which tempered all his conduct, 
determined to investigate the matter, 
before he proceeded to sentence. [290 
The result was, that the supposed mendi- 
cants, the receivers or purchasers of the 
mysterious scraps, turned out to be the 

parents of , an honest couple come 

to decay, — whom this seasonable supply 
had, in all probability, saved from men- 
dicancy; and that this young stork, at 
the expense of his own good name, had 
all this while been only feeding the old 
birds! — The governors on this occa- [300 
sion, much to their honor, voted a present 

relief to the family of , and presented 

him with a silver medal. The lesson 
which the steward read upon rash judg- 
ment, on the occasion of publicly deliver- 
ing the medal to , I believe, would 

not be lost upon his auditory. — I had left 

school then, but I well remember . 

He was a tall, shambling youth, with a 
cast in his eye, not at all calculated [310 
to conciliate hostile prejudices. I have 
since seen him carrying a baker's basket. 
I think I heard he did not do quite so 
well by himself, as he had done by the 
old folks. 



I was a hypochondriac lad; and the 
sight of a boy in fetters, upon the day of 
my first putting on the blue clothes, was 
not exactly fitted to assuage the natural 
terrors of initiation. I was of tender [320 
years, barely turned of seven; and had 
only read of such things in books, or seen 
them but in dreams. I was told he had 
run away. This was the punishment for 
the first offence. — As a novice I was soon 
after taken to see the dungeons. These 
were little, square. Bedlam cells, where 
a boy could just lie at his length upon 
straw and a blanket — a mattress, I think, 
was afterwards substituted — with a [330 
peep of light, let in askance, from a prison- 
orifice at top, barely enough to read by. 
Here the poor boy was locked in by him- 
self all day, without sight of any but the 
porter who brought him his bread and 
water — who might not speak to him; — or 
of the beadle, who came twice a week to 
call him out to receive his periodical 
chastisement, which was almost welcome, 
because it separated him for a brief [340 
interval from solitude: — and here he was 
shut up by himself of nights, out of the 
reach of any sound, to suffer whatever 
horrors the weak nerves, and supersti- 
tion incident to his time of life, might 
subject him to.^ This was the penalty 
for the second offence. — Wouldst thou 
like, reader, to see what became of him in 
the next degree? 

The culprit, who had been a third [350 
time an offender, and whose expulsion was 
at this time deemed irreversible, was 
brought forth, as at some solemn auto da 
fe, arrayed in uncouth and most appalling 
attire — all trace of his late "watchet 
weeds" carefully effaced, he was exposed 
in a jacket, resembling those which Lon- 
don lamplighters formerly delighted in, 
with a cap of the same. The effect of 
this divestiture was such as the in- [360 
genious devisers of it could have antici- 
pated. With his pale and frighted fea- 
tures, it was as if some of those disfigure- 
ments in Dante had seized upon him. 

• One or two instances of lunacy, or attempted suicide, 
accordingly, at length convinced the governors of the im- 
policy of this part of the sentence, and the midnight torture 
to the spirits was dispensed with. — This fancy of dungeons 
for children was a sprout of Howard's brain; for which fsav- 
ing the reverence due to Holy PauU, methinks, I could wil- 
ingly spit upon his statue. [Howard's statue was in St. Paul's 
Cathedral.! 



5i6 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



In this disguisement he was brought into 
the hall {h.'s favorite state-room), where 
awaited him the whole number of his 
schoolfellows, whose joint lessons and 
sports he was thenceforth to share no 
more; the awful presence of the stew- [370 
ard, to be seen for the last time; of the 
executioner beadle, clad in his state robe 
for the occasion; and of two faces more, of 
direr import, because never but in these 
extremities visible. These were governors ; 
two of whom, by choice, or charter, were 
always accustomed to officiate at these 
Ultima Supplicia; not to mitigate (so at 
least we understood it), but to enforce 
the uttermost stripe. Old Bamber [380 
Gascoigne, and Peter Aubert, I remember, 
were colleagues on one occasion, when the 
beadle turning rather pale, a glass of 
brandy was ordered to prepare him for 
the mysteries. The scourging was, after 
the old Roman fashion, long and stately. 
The lictor accompanied the criminal 
quite round the hall. We were generally 
too faint with attending to the previous 
disgusting circumstances, to make ac- [390 
curate report with our eyes of the degree 
of corporal suffering inflicted. Report, 
of course, gave out the back knotty and 
livid. After scourging, he was made over, 
in his San Benito, to his friends, if he had 
any (but commonly such poor runagates 
were friendless), or to his parish officer, 
who, to enhance the effect of the scene, 
had his station allotted to him on the 
outside of the hall gate. [400 

These solemn pageantries were not 
played off so often as to spoil the general 
mirth of the community. We had plenty 
of exercise and recreation after school 
hours; and, for myself, I must confess, 
that I was never happier, than in them. 
The Upper and Lower Grammar Schools 
were held in the same room; and an 
imaginary line only divided their bounds. 
Their character was as different as [410 
that of the inhabitants on the two sides 
of the Pyrenees. The Rev. James Boyer 
was the Upper Master; but the Rev. 
Matthew Field presided over that portion 
of the apartment, of which I had the 
good fortune to be a member. We lived 
a Hfe as careless as birds. We talked and 
did just what we pleased, and nobody 



molested us. We carried an accidence, 
or a grammar, for form; but, for any [420 
trouble it gave us, we might take two years 
in getting through the verbs deponent, and 
another two in forgetting all that we had 
learned about them. There was now and 
then the formality of saying a lesson, but 
if you had not learned it, a brush across 
the shoulders (just enough to disturb a 
fly) was the sole remonstrance. Field 
never used the rod; and in truth he wielded 
the cane with no great good will — [430 
holding it "like a dancer." It looked in 
his hands rather like an emblem than an 
instrument of authority; and an emblem, 
too, he was ashamed of. He was a good 
easy man, that did not care to ruffle his 
own peace, nor perhaps set any great 
consideration upon the value of juvenile 
time. He came among us, now and then, 
but often stayed away whole days from 
us; and when he came, it made no dif- [440 
ference to us — he had his private room to 
retire to, the short time he stayed, to be 
out of the sound of our noise. Our mirth 
and uproar went on. We had classics of 
our own, without being beholden to 
"insolent Greece or haughty Rome," 
that passed current among us — Peter 
Wilkins — -the Adventures of the Hon. 
Capt. Robert Boyle — the Fortunate Blue 
Coat Boy — and the like. Or we culti- [450 
vated a turn for mechanic or scientific 
operation; making little sun-dials of paper; 
or weaving those ingenious parentheses, 
called cat-cradles; or making dry peas to 
dance upon the end of a tin pipe; or study- 
ing the art mihtary over that laudable 
game "French and EngHsh," and a hun- 
dred other such devices to pass away the 
time — mixing the useful with the agree- 
able — as would have made the souls [460 
of Rousseau and John Locke chuckle to 
have seen us. 

Matthew Field belonged to that class 
of modest divines who affect to mix in 
equal proportion the gentleman, the scholar, 
and the Christian; but, I know not how, 
the first ingredient is generally found to 
be the predominating dose in the compo- 
sition. He was engaged in gay parties, 
or with his courtly bow at some epis- [470 
copal levee, when he should have been 
attending upon us. He had for many 



LAMB 



517 



years the classical charge of a hundred 
children, during the four or five first years 
of their education; and his very highest 
form seldom proceeded further than two 
or three of the introductory fables of 
Phaedrus. How things were suffered to 
go on thus, I cannot guess. Boyer, who 
was the proper person to have reme- [480 
died these abuses, always affected, per- 
haps felt, a delicacy in interfering in a 
province not strictly his own. I have 
not been without my suspicions, that he 
was not altogether displeased at the con- 
trast we presented to his end of the school. 
We were a sort of Helots to his young 
Spartans. He would sometimes, with 
ironic deference, send to borrow a rod 
of the Under Master, and then, with [490 
sardonic grin, observe to one of his upper 
boys, "how neat and fresh the twigs 
looked." While his pale students were 
battering their brains over Xenophon 
and Plato, with a silence as deep as that 
enjoined by the Samite, we were enjoying 
ourselves at our ease in our little Goshen. 
We saw a little into the secrets of his dis- 
cipline, and the prospect did but the more 
reconcile us to our lot. His thunders [500 
rolled innocuous for us; his storms came 
near, but never touched us; contrary to 
Gideon's miracle, while all around were 
drenched, our fleece was dry. His boys 
turned out the better scholars; we, I sus- 
pect, have the advantage in temper. His 
pupils cannot speak of him without some- 
thing of terror allaying their gratitude; the 
remembrance of Field comes back with all 
the soothing images of indolence, and [510 
summer slumbers, and work like play, and 
innocent idleness, and Elysian exemptions, 
and life itself a "playing holiday." 

Though sufficiently removed from the 
jurisdiction of Boyer, we were near 
enough (as I have said) to understand 
a httle of his system. We occasionally 
heard sounds of the Ululantes, and caught 
glances of Tartarus. B. was a rabid 
pedant. His English style was [520 
cramped to barbarism. His Easter an- 
thems (for his duty obliged him to those 
periodical flights) were grating as scrannel 
pipes.-' — He would laugh, ay, and heartily, 

' In this and every thing B. was the antipodes of his co- 
adjutor. While the former was diKping his brains for crude 
anthems, worth a pig-nut, F. would be recreating his gentle- 



but then it must be at Flaccus's quibble 
about Rex — or at the tristis severitas in 
vultu, or inspicere in patinas, of Terence — 
thin jests, which at their first broach- 
ing could hardly have had vis enough to 
move a Roman muscle. — He had two [530 
wigs, both pedantic, but of different 
omen. The one serene, smiHng, fresh 
powdered, betokening a mild day. The 
other, an old, discolored, unkempt, angry 
caxon, denoting frequent and bloody 
execution. Woe to the school, when he 
made his morning appearance in his 
passy, or passionate wig. No comet ex- 
pounded surer. — J. B. had a heavy hand. 
I have known him double his knotty [540 
fist at a poor trembling child (the ma- 
ternal milk hardly dry upon its lips) with 
a "Sirrah, do you presume to set your 
wits at me?" — Nothing was more com- 
mon than to see him make a headlong 
entry into the schoolroom, from his inner 
recess, or library, and, wdth turbulent 
eye, singling out a lad, roar out, "Od's my 
life. Sirrah" (his favorite adjuration), 
" I have a great mind to whip you," — [550 
then, with as sudden a retracting impulse, 
fling back into his lair — and, after a cool- 
ing lapse of some minutes (during which 
all but the culprit had totally forgotten 
the context) drive headlong out again, 
piecing out his imperfect sense, as if it 
had been some Devil's Litany, with the 
expletory yell — "and I will too." — In his 
gentler moods, when the rabidus furor 
was assuaged, he had resort to an in- [560 
genious method, pecuHar, for what I have 
heard, to himself, of whipping the boy, 
and reading the Debates, at the same 
time; a paragraph, and a lash between; 
which in those times, when parliamentary 
oratory was most at a height and flourish- 
ing in these realms, was not calculated 
to impress the patient with a veneration 
for the diffuser graces of rhetoric. 

Once, and but once, the upHfted [570 
rod was known to fall ineffectual from his 
hand — when droll squinting W hav- 
ing been caught putting the inside of the 

manly fancy in the more flowery walks of the ^^uses. .'\ 
little dramatic effusion of his, under the name of Vertumnus 
and Pomona, is not yet forgotten by the chroniclers of that 
sort of literature. It was accepted by Garrick, but the town 
did not give it their sanction. — B. used to say of it. in a way 
of half-compliment, half-irony, that it was too classical /or 
representation. (Lamb.) 



Si8 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



master's desk to a use for which the 
architect had clearly not designed it, to 
justify himself, with great simplicity 
averred, that he did not know that the thing 
had been forewarned. This exquisite irrec- 
ognition of any law antecedent to the 
oral or declaratory struck so irre- [580 
sistibly upon the fancy of all who heard 
it (the pedagogue himself not excepted) 
that remission was unavoidable. 

L. has given credit to B.'s great merits 
as an instructor. Coleridge, in his literary 
life, has pronounced a more intelligible 
and ample encomium on them. The 
author of the Country Spectator doubts 
not to compare him with the ablest 
teachers of antiquity. Perhaps we [590 
cannot dismiss him better than with the 
pious ejaculation of C. — when he heard 
that his old master was on his death- 
bed — "Poor J. B.! — may all his faults 
be forgiven ; and may he be wafted to bliss 
by little cherub boys, all head and wings, 
with no bottoms to reproach his sublunary 
infirmities." 

Under him were many good and sound 
scholars bred. — First Grecian of my [600 
time was Lancelot Pepys Stevens, kindest 
of boys and men, since Co-grammar- 
master (and inseparable companion) with 

Dr. T e. What an edifying spectacle 

did this brace of friends present to those 
who remembered the anti-socialities of 
their predecessors! — You never met the 
one by chance in the street without a 
wonder, which was quickly dissipated by 
the almost immediate sub-appearance [610 
of the other. Generally arm in arm, these 
kindly coadjutors lightened for each other 
the toilsome duties of their profession, 
and when, in advanced age, one found it 
convenient to retire, the other was not 
long in discovering that it suited him to 
lay down the fasces also. Oh, it is pleas- 
ant, as it is rare, to find the same arm 
linked in yours at forty, which at thirteen 
helped it to turn over the Cicero De [620 
Amicitia, or some tale of Antique Friend- 
ship, which the young heart even then 
was burning to anticipate! — Co- Grecian 
with S. was Th , who has since exe- 
cuted with ability various diplomatic 

functions at the Northern courts. Th 

was a tall, dark, saturnine youth, sparing 



of speech, with raven locks. — Thomas 
Fanshaw Middleton followed him (now 
Bishop of Calcutta) a scholar and a [630 
gentleman in his teens. He has the repu- 
tation of an excellent critic; and is author 
(besides the Country Spectator) of a 
Treatise on the Greek Article, against 
Sharpe — M. is said to bear his mitre high 
in India, where the regni novitas (I dare 
say) sufiEiciently justifies the bearing. A 
humility quite as primitive as that of 
Jewel or Hooker might not be exactly 
fitted to impress the minds of those [640 
Anglo-Asiatic diocesans with a reverence 
for home institutions, and the church 
which those fathers watered. The man- 
ners of M. at school, though firm, were 
mild and unassuming. — Next to M. (if 
not senior to him) was Richards, author 
of the Aboriginal Britons, the most 
spirited of the Oxford Prize Poems; a 
pale, studious Grecian. — Then followed 

poor S , ill-fated M ! of these [650 

the Muse is silent. 

" Finding some of Edward's race 
Unhappy, pass their annals by." 

Come back into memory, like as thou 
wert in the dayspring of thy fancies, with 
hope like a fiery column before thee — 
the dark pillar not yet turned — Samuel 
Taylor Coleridge — Logician, Metaphy- 
sician, Bard! — How have I seen the casual 
passer through the Cloisters stand [660 
still, entranced with admiration (while 
he weighed the disproportion between 
the speech and the garb of the young 
Mirandula), to hear thee unfold, in thy 
deep and sweet intonations, the mys- 
teries of Jamblichus, or Plotinus (for 
even in those years thou waxedst not pale 
at such philosophic draughts), or reciting 
Homer in his Greek, or Pindar — while 
the walls of the old Grey Friars re- [670 
echoed to the accents of the inspired 
charity-boy! Many were the "wit-com- 
bats" (to dally awhile with the words 
of old Fuller) between him and C. V. Le 

G , "which two I behold like a 

Spanish great gallion, and an English 
man-of-war; Master Coleridge, like the 
former, was built far higher in learning, 
solid, but slow in his performances. C. 



LAMB 



519 



V. L., with the English man-of-war, [680 
lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could 
turn with all tides, tack about, and take 
advantage of all winds, by the quickness 
of his wit and invention." 

Nor shalt thou, their compeer, be 
quickly forgotten, Allen, with the cordial 
smile, and still more cordial laugh, with 
which thou wert wont to make the old 
Cloisters shake, in thy cognition of some 
poignant jest of theirs; or the antici- [690 
pation of some more material, and, perad- 
venture, practical one, of thine own. 
Extinct are those smiles, with that beau- 
tiful countenance, with which (for thou 
wert the Nireus formosus of the school), 
in the days of thy maturer waggery, thou 
didst disarm the wrath of infuriated 
town-damsel, who, incensed by provok- 
ing pinch, turning tigress-like round, sud- 
denly converted by thy angel-look, ex- [700 

changed the half-formed terrible "bl ," 

for a gentler greeting — "bless thy hand- 
some face!''' 

Next follow two, who ought to be now 
alive, and the friends of Elia — the junior 

Le G and F ; who, impelled, the 

former by a roving temper, the latter by 
too quick a sense of neglect — ill capable of 
enduring the slights poor Sizars are some- 
times subject to in our seats of learn- [710 
ing — exchanged their Alma Mater for the 
camp; perishing, one by climate, and one 

on the plains of Salamanca: — Le G 

sanguine, volatile, sweet-natured ; F 

dogged, faithful, anticipative of insult, 
warm-hearted, with something of the old 
Roman height about him. 

Fine, frank-hearted Fr , the present 

master of Hertford, with Marmaduke 

T , mildest of Missionaries — and [720 

both my good friends still — close the cata- 
logue of Grecians in my time. 



DREAM-CHILDREN; A REVERIE 

Children love to listen to stories about 
their elders, when they were children; to 
stretch their imagination to the concep- 
tion of a traditionary great-uncle or 
grandame, whom they never saw.. It was 
in this spirit that my little ones crept 



about me the other evening to hear about 
their great-grandmother Field, who lived 
in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred 
times bigger than that in which they [10 
and papa lived) which had been the 
scene — so at least it was generally be- 
lieved in that part of the country — of the 
tragic incidents which they had lately 
become familiar with from the ballad of 
the Children in the Wood. Certain it is 
that the whole story of the children 
and their cruel uncle was to be seen 
fairly carved out in wood upon the 
chimney-piece of the great hall, [20 
the whole story down to the Robin 
Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person 
pulled it down to set up a marble 
one of modern invention in its stead, 
with no story upon it. Here Alice 
put out one of her dear mother's 
looks, too tender to be called up- 
braiding. Then I went on to say, 
how religious and how good their 
great-grandmother Field was, how [30 
beloved and respected by every body, 
though she was not indeed the mistress 
of this great house, but had only the 
charge of it (and yet in some respects 
she might be said to be the mistress of it 
too) committed to her by the owner, who 
preferred living in a newer and more 
fashionable mansion which he had pur- 
chased somewhere in the adjoining county; 
but still she lived in it in a manner [40 
as if it had been her own, and kept up the 
dignity of the great house in a sort while 
she lived, which afterwards came to decay, 
and was nearly pulled down, and all its old 
ornaments stripped and carried away to 
the owner's other house, where they were 
set up, and looked as awkward as if some 
one were to carry away the old tombs 
they had seen lately at the Abbey, and 
stick them up in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt [50 
drawing-room. Here John smiled, as 
much as to say, "that would be foolish 
indeed." And then I told how, when she 
came to die, her funeral was attended by 
a concourse of all the poor, and some of 
the gentry too, of the neighborhood for 
many miles round, to show their respect 
for her memory, because she had been 
such a good and religious woman; so good 
indeed that she knew all the Psaltery [60 



520 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testa- 
ment besides. Here httle AHce spread 
her hands. Then I told what a tall, up- 
right, graceful person their great-grand- 
mother Field once was; and how in her 
youth she was esteemed the best dancer — 
here Alice's httle right foot played an 
involuntary movement, till upon my 
looking grave, it desisted — the best dancer, 
I was saying, in the county, till a [70 
cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and 
bowed her down with pain; but it could 
never bend her good spirits, or make them 
stoop, but they were still upright, because 
she was so good and religious. Then I 
told how she was used to sleep by herself 
in a lone chamber of the great lone house; 
and how she believed that an apparition 
of two infants was to be seen at midnight 
gliding up and down the great stair- [80 
case near where she slept, but she said 
"those innocents would do her no harm;" 
and how frightened I used to be, though 
in those days I had my maid to sleep with 
me, because I was never half so good or 
religious as she — and yet I never saw the 
infants. Here John expanded all his eye- 
brows and tried to look courageous. 
Then I told how good she was to all her 
grand-children, having us to the great [90 
house in the holidays, where I in particular 
used to spend many hours by myself, in 
gazing upon the old busts of the Twelve 
Caesars, that had been Emperors of 
Rome, till the old marble heads would 
seem to live again, or I to be turned into 
marble with them; how I never could be 
tired with roaming about that huge man- 
sion, with its vast empty rooms, with 
their worn-out hangings, fluttering [100 
tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with 
the gilding almost rubbed out — sometimes 
in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, 
which I had almost to myself, unless when 
now and then a solitary gardening man 
would cross me — and how the nectarines 
and peaches hung upon the walls, without 
my ever offering to pluck them, because 
they were forbidden fruit, unless now 
and then, — and because I had more [no 
pleasure in strolling about among the 
old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the 
firs, and picking up the red berries, and 
the fir apples, which were good for noth- 



ing but to look at — or in lying about 
upon the fresh grass, with all the fine 
garden smells around me — or basking in 
the orangery, till I could almost fancy 
myself ripening too along with the oranges 
and the limes in that grateful warmth [120 
— or in watching the dace that darted to 
and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of 
the garden, with here and there a great 
sulky pike hanging midway down the 
water in silent state, as if it mocked at 
their impertinent friskings, — I had more 
pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than 
in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nec- 
tarines, oranges, and such like common 
baits of children. Here John slily [130 
deposited back upon the plate a bunch of 
grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, 
he had meditated dividing with her, and 
both seemed willing to relinquish them 
for the present as irrelevant. Then in 
somewhat a more heightened tone, I told 
how, though their great-grandmother Field 
loved all her grand-children, yet in an 
especial manner she might be said to love 

their uncle, John L , because he [140 

was so handsome and spirited a youth, 
and a king to the rest of us; and, instead 
of moping about in solitary corners, like 
some of us, he would mount the most 
mettlesome horse he could get, when but 
an imp no bigger than themselves, and 
make it carry him half over the county 
in a morning, and join the hunters when 
there were any out — and yet he loved the 
old great house and gardens too, but [150 
had too much spirit to be always pent up 
within their boundaries — and how their 
uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as 
he was handsome, to the admiration of 
everybody, but of their great-grandmother 
Field most especially; and how he used 
to carry me upon his back when I was a 
lame-footed boy — for he was a good bit 
older than me — many a mile when I could 
not walk for pain; — and how in after [160 
life he became lame-footed too, and I did 
not always (I fear) make allowances 
enough for him when he was impatient, 
and in pain, nor remember sufficiently 
how considerate he had been to me when 
I was lame-footed; and how when he 
died, though he had not been dead an 
hour, it seemed as if he had died a great 



LAMB 



521 



while ago, such a distance there is betwixt 
Hfe and death; and how I bore his [170 
death as I thought pretty well at first, 
but afterwards it haunted and haunted 
me; and though I did not cry or take it 
to heart as some do, and as I think he 
would have done if I had died, yet I missed 
him all day long, and knew not till then 
how much I had loved him. I missed his 
kindness, and I missed his crossness, and 
wished him to be alive again, to be quar- 
relling with him (for we quarrelled [180 
sometimes), rather than not have him 
again, and was as uneasy without him, as 
he their poor uncle must have been when 
the doctor took off his limb. Here the 
children fell a-crying, and asked if their 
little mourning which they had on was 
not for uncle John, and they looked up, 
and prayed me not to go on about their 
uncle, but to tell them some stories about 
their pretty dead mother. Then I [190 
told how for seven long years, in hope 
sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet 
persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice 

W n; and, as much as children could 

understand, I explained to them what 
coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant 
in maidens — when suddenly, turning to 
Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked 
out at her eyes with such a reality of 
re-presentment, that I became in [200 
doubt which of them stood there before 
me, or whose that bright hair was; and 
while I stood gazing, both the' children 
gradually grew fainter to my \'iew, reced- 
ing, and still receding till nothing at last 
but two mournful features were seen in 
the uttermost distance, which, without 
speech, strangely impressed upon me the 
effects of speech; "We are not of Alice, 
nor of thee, nor are we children at all. [210 
The children of Alice call Bartrum father. 
We are nothing; less than nothing, and 
dreams. We are only what might have 
been, and must wait upon the tedious 
shores of Lethe millions of ages before 
we have existence, and a name" — and 
immediately awaking, I found myself 
quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, 
where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful 
Bridget unchanged by my side — but [220 
John L. (or James Elia) was gone for 
ever. 



THE PRAISE OF CHIMNEY- 
SWEEPERS 

I like to meet a sweep — understand 
me — not a grown sweeper — old chimney- 
sweepers are by no means attractive — 
but one of those tender novices, blooming 
through their first nigritude, the maternal 
washings not quite effaced from the 
cheek — such as come forth with the 
dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their 
little professional notes sounding like the 
peep peep of a young sparrow; or [10 
liker to the matin lark should I pronounce 
them, in their aerial ascents not seldom 
anticipating the sun-rise? 

I have a kindly yearning toward these 
dim specks — poor blots — innocent black- 
nesses — 

I reverence these young Africans of our 
own growth — these almost clergy imps, 
w^ho sport their cloth without assumption; 
and from their little pulpits (the tops [20 
of chimneys), in the nipping air of a De- 
cember morning, preach a lesson of pa- 
tience to mankind. 

When a child, what a mysterious pleas- 
ure it was to witness their operation ! to see 
a chit no bigger than one's self enter, one 
knew not by what process, into what 
seemed the fauces Averni — to pursue him 
in imagination, as he went sounding on 
through so many dark stiffing caverns, [30 
horrid shades! — to shudder with the idea 
that "now, surely, he must be lost for 
ever!" — to revive at hearing his feeble 
shout of discovered day-light — and then 
(0 fulness of delight) running out of doors, 
to come just in time to see the sable 
phenomenon emerge in safety, the bran- 
dished weapon of his art victorious like 
some flag waved over a conquered citadel ! 
I seem to remember having been told, [40 
that a bad sweep was once left in a stack 
with his brush, to indicate which way the 
wind blew. It was an awful spectacle 
certainly; not much unlike the old stage 
direction in Macbeth, where the "Appari- 
tion of a child crowned with a tree in his 
hand rises." 

Reader, if thou meetest one of these 
small gentry in thy early rambles, it is 
good to give him a penny. It is better [50 



522 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



to give him two-pence. If it be starving 
weather, and to the proper troubles of 
his hard occupation, a pair of kibed heels 
(no unusual accompaniment) be super- 
added, the demand on thy humanity will 
surely rise to a tester. 

There is a composition, the ground- 
work of which I have understood to be 
the sweet wood 'yclept sassafras. This 
wood boiled down to a kind of tea, and [60 
tempered with an infusion of milk and 
sugar, hath to some tastes a delicacy 
beyond the China luxury. I know not 
how thy palate may relish it; for myself, 
with every deference to the judicious 
Mr. Read, who hath time out of mind 
kept open a shop (the only one he avers 
in London) for the vending of this "whole- 
some and pleasant beverage," on the south 
side of Fleet Street, as thou approach- [70 
est Bridge Street — the only Salopian house, 
— I have never yet ventured to dip my 
own particular lip in a basin of his com- 
mended ingredients — a cautious premoni- 
tion to the olfactories constantly whis- 
pering to me, that my stomach must 
infallibly, with all due courtesy, decline 
it. Yet I have seen palates, otherwise 
not uninstructed in dietetical elegances, 
sup it up with avidity. [80 

I know not by what particular confor- 
mation of the organ it happens, but I 
have always found that this composition 
is surprisingly gratifying to the palate 
of a young chimney-sweeper — whether 
the oily particles (sassafras is slightly 
oleaginous) do attenuate and soften the 
fuliginous concretions, which are some- 
times found (in dissections) to adhere 
to the roof of the mouth in these un- [90 
fledged practitioners; or Avhether Nature, 
sensible that she had mingled too much of 
bitter wood in the lot of these raw victims, 
caused to grow out of the earth her sassa- 
fras for a sweet lenitive — but so it is, that 
no possible taste or odor to the senses of a 
young chimney-sweeper can convey a 
delicate excitement comparable to this 
mixture. Being penniless, they will yet 
hang their black heads over the as- [100 
cending steam, to gratify one sense if pos- 
sible, seemingly no less pleased than those 
domestic animals — cats — when they purr 
over a new-found sprig of valerian. There 



is something more in these sympathies 
than philosophy can inculcate. 

Now albeit Mr. Read boasteth, not 
without reason, that his is the only 
Salopian house; yet be it known to thee, 
reader — if thou art one who keepest [no 
what are called good hours, thou art 
haply ignorant of the fact — he hath a 
race of industrious imitators, who from 
stalls, and under open sky, dispense the 
same savory mess to humbler customers, 
at that dead time of the dawn, when 
(as extremes meet) the rake, reeling home 
from his midnight cups, and the hard- 
handed artisan leaving his bed to resume 
the premature labors of the day, [120 
jostle, not unfrequently to the manifest 
disconcerting of the former, for the honors 
of the pavement. It is the time when, in 
summer, between the expired and the not 
yet relumined kitchen-fires, the kennels 
of our fair metropolis give forth their 
least satisfactory odors. The rake, who 
wisheth to dissipate his o'er-night vapors 
in more grateful coffee, curses the ungenial 
fume, as he passeth; but the artisan [130 
stops to taste, and blesses the fragrant 
breakfast. 

This is Saloop — the precocious herb- 
woman's darling — the delight of the early 
gardener, who transports his smoking 
cabbages by break of day from Hammer- 
smith to Covent Garden's famed piazzas — 
the delight, and, oh I fear, too often the 
envy, of the unpennied sweep. Him 
shouldest thou haply encounter, with [140 
his dim visage pendent over the grateful 
steam, regale him with a sumptuous basin 
(it will cost thee but three half-pennies) 
and a slice of delicate bread and butter 
(an added halfpenny) — so may thy culin- 
ary fires, eased of the o'er-charged secre- 
tions from thy worse-placed hospitalities, 
curl up a lighter volume to the welkin — 
so may the descending soot never taint 
thy costly well-ingredienced soups — [150 
nor the odious cry, quick- reaching from 
street to street, of the fired chimney, in- 
vite the rattling engines from ten adjacent 
parishes, to disturb for a casual scintilla- 
tion thy peace and pocket ! 

I am by nature extremely susceptible 
of street affronts; the jeers and taunts of 
the populace; the low-bred triumph they 



LAMB 



523 



display over the casual trip, or splashed 
stocking, of a gentleman. Yet can I [160 
endure the jocularity of a young sweep 
with something more than forgiveness.— 
In the last winter but one, pacing along 
Cheapside with my accustomed precipi- 
tation when I walk westward, a treacher- 
ous slide brought me upon my back in an 
instant, I scrambled up with pain and 
shame enough — yet outwardly trying to 
face it down, as if nothing had happened — 
when the roguish grin of one of these [i 70 
young wits encountered me. There he 
stood, pointing me out with his dusky 
finger to the mob, and to a poor woman 
(I suppose his mother) in particular, till 
the tears for the exquisiteness of the fun 
(so he thought it) worked themselves out 
at the corners of his poor red eyes, red 
from many a previous weeping, and soot- 
inflamed, yet twinkling through all with 
such a joy, snatched out of desolation, [180 
that Hogarth— but Hogarth has got him 
already (how could he miss him?) in the 
March to Finchley, grinning at the pie- 
man — there he stood, as he stands in the 
picture, irremovable, as if the jest was to 
last for ever — with such a maximum of 
glee, and minimum of mischief, in his mirth 
— for the grin of a genuine sweep hath ab- 
solutely no malice in it — that I could have 
been content, if the honor of a gentle- [190 
man might endure it, to have remained 
his butt and his mockery till midnight. 

I am by theory obdurate to the seduc- 
tiveness of what are called a fine set of 
teeth. Every pair of rosy lips (the ladies 
must pardon me) is a casket, presumably 
holding such jewels; but, methinks, they 
should take leave to "air" them as fru- 
gally as possible. The fine lady, or fine 
gentleman, who show me their teeth, [200 
show me bones. Yet must I confess, 
that from the mouth of a true sweep a 
display (even to ostentation) of those 
white and shining ossifications, strikes me 
as an agreeable anomaly in manners, and 
an allowable piece of foppery. It is, as 
when 

" A sable cloud 
Turns forth her silver lining on the night." 

It is like some remnant of gentry not [210 
quite extinct; a badge of better days; a 



hint of nobility: — and, doubtless, under 
the obscuring darkness and double night 
of their forlorn disguisement, oftentimes 
lurketh good blood, and gentle conditions, 
derived from lost ancestry, and a lapsed 
pedigree. The premature apprentice- 
ments of these tender victims give but 
too much encouragement, I fear, to 
clandestine, and almost infantile ab- [220 
ductions; the seeds of civility and true 
courtesy, so often discernible in these 
young grafts (not otherwise to be ac- 
counted for) plainly hint at some forced 
adoptions; many noble Rachels mourn- 
ing for their children, even in our days, 
countenance the fact; the tales of fairy- 
spiriting may shadow a lamentable verity, 
and the recovery of the young Montagu 
be but a solitary instance of good for- [230 
tune, out of many irreparable and hope- 
less defiliations . 

In one of the state-beds at Arundel 
Castle, a few years since — under a ducal 
canopy — (that seat of the Howards is an 
object of curiosity to visitors, chiefly for 
its beds, in which the late duke was es- 
pecially a connoisseur) — encircled with 
curtains of delicatest crimson, with starry 
coronets inwoven — folded between a [240 
pair of sheets whiter and softer than the 
lap where Venus lulled Ascanius — was 
discovered by chance, after all methods 
of search had failed, at noon-day, fast 
asleep, a lost chimney sweeper. The 
little creature, having somehow con- 
founded his passage among the intricacies 
of those lordly chimneys, by some un- 
known aperture had alighted upon this 
magnificent chamber; and, tired with [250 
his tedious explorations, was unable to 
resist the delicious invitement to repose, 
which he there saw exhibited; so, creeping 
between the sheets very quietly, laid his 
black head upon the pillow, and slept 
like a young Howard. 

Such is the account given to the visitors 
at the Castle. — But I cannot help seeming 
to perceive a confirmation of what I have 
just hinted at in this story. A high [260 
instinct was at work in the case, or I am 
mistaken. Is it probable that a poor child 
of that description, with whatever weari- 
ness he might be visited, would ha\'e 
ventured, imder such a penalty, as he 



524 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



would be taught to expect, to uncover the 
sheets of a Duke's bed, and deliberately 
to lay himself down between them, when 
the rug, or the carpet, presented an 
obvious couch, still far above his pre- [270 
tensions — is this probable, I would ask, 
if the great power of nature, which I 
contend for, had not been manifested 
within him, prompting to the adventure? 
Doubtless this young nobleman (for such 
my mind misgives me that he must be) 
was allured by some memory, not amount- 
ing to full consciousness, of his condition 
in infancy, when he was used to be lapt 
by his mother, or his nurse, in just [280 
such sheets as he there found, into which 
he was but now creeping back as into his 
proper incunabula, and resting-place. — 
By no other theory, than by this senti- 
ment of a pre-existent state (as I may call 
it), can I explain a deed so venturous, and, 
indeed, upon any other system, so in- 
decorous, in this tender, but unseasonable, 
sleeper. 

My pleasant friend Jem White was [290 
so impressed with a belief of metamor- 
phoses like this frequently taking place, 
that in some sort to reverse the wrongs 
of fortune in these poor changelings, he 
instituted an annual feast of chimney- 
sweepers, at which it was his pleasure to 
officiate as host and waiter. It was a 
solemn supper held in Smithfield, upon 
the yearly return of the fair of St. Barthol- 
omew. Cards were issued a week be- [300 
fore to the master-sweeps in and about the 
metropolis, confining the invitation to 
their younger fry. Now and then an 
elderly stripling would get in among us, 
and be good-naturedly winked at; but 
our main body were infantry. One un- 
fortunate wight, indeed, who, relying upon 
his dusky suit, had intruded himself into 
our party, but by tokens was providen- 
tially discovered in time to be no [310 
chimney-sweeper (all is not soot which 
looks so), was quoited out of the presence 
with universal indignation, as not having 
on the wedding garment; but in general 
the greatest harmony prevailed. The 
place chosen was a convenient spot among 
the pens, at the north side of the fair, not 
so far distant as to be impervious to the 
agreeable hubbub of that vanity; but 



remote enough not to be obvious to [320 
the interruption of every gaping spectator 
in it. The guests assembled about seven. 
In those little temporary parlors three 
tables were spread with napery, not so 
fine as substantial, and at every board a 
comely hostess presided with her pan 
of hissing sausages. The nostrils of the 
young rogues dilated at the savor. James 
White, as head waiter, had charge of the 
first table; and myself, with our [330 
trusty companion Bigod, ordinarily min- 
istered to the other two. There was 
clambering and jostling, you may be sure, 
who should get at the first table — for 
Rochester in his maddest days could not 
have done the humors of the scene with 
more spirit than my friend. After some 
general expression of thanks for the honor 
the company had done him, his inaugural 
ceremony was to clasp the greasy [340 
waist of old dame Ursula (the fattest of 
the three), that stood frying and fretting, 
half-blessing, half-cursing "the gentle- 
man," and imprint upon her chaste lips 
a tender salute, whereat the universal 
host would s,et up a shout that tore the 
concave, while hundreds of grinning teeth 
startled the night with their brightness. 
it was a pleasure to see the sable 
younkers lick in the unctuous meat, [350 
with his more unctuous sayings — how 
he would fit the tit-bits to the puny 
mouths, reserving the lengthier links for 
the seniors — how he would intercept a 
morsel even in the jaws of some young 
desperado, declaring it "must to the pan 
again to be browned, for it was not fit 
for a gentleman's eating" — how he would 
recommend this slice of white bread, or 
that piece of kissing-crust, to a ten- [360 
der juvenile, advising them all to have a 
care of cracking their teeth, which were 
their best patrimony, — how genteelly he 
would deal about the small ale, as if it 
were wine, naming the brewer, and pro- 
testing, if it were not good he should lose 
their custom; with a special recommenda- 
tion to wipe the lip before drinking. Then 
we had our toasts — -"The King," — the 
"Cloth," — which, whether they un- [370 
derstood or not, was equally diverting 
and flattering; — and for a crowning senti- 
ment, which never failed, "May the Brush 



LAMB 



525 



supersede the Laurel." All these, and 
fifty other fancies, which were rather felt 
than comprehended by his guests, would 
he utter, standing upon tables, and prd- 
acing every sentiment with a "Gentle- 
men, give me leave to propose so and 
so," which was a prodigious comfort [380 
to those young orphans; every now and 
then stuffing into his mouth (for it did 
not do to be squeamish on these occasions) 
indiscriminate pieces of those reeking 
sausages, which pleased them mightily, 
and was the savoriest part, you may be- 
lieve, of the entertainment. 

"Golden lads and lasses must. 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust" — 

James White is extinct, and with [390 
him these suppers have long ceased. He 
carried away with him half the fun 
of the world when he died — of my world 
at least. His old clients look for him 
among the pens; and, missing him, 
reproach the altered feast of St. Bar- 
tholomew, and the glory of Smithfield 
departed for ever. 



A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST 
PIG 

Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, 
which my friend M. was obliging enough 
to read and explain to me, for the first 
seventy thousand ages ate their meat 
raw, clawing or biting it from the living 
animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to 
this day. This period is not obscurely 
hinted at by their great Confucius in 
the second chapter of his Mundane 
Mutations, where he designates a [10 
kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, 
literally the Cook's Holiday. The manu- 
script ?oes on to say, that the art of roast- 
ing, or rather broiling (which I take to 
be the elder brother) was accidentally 
discovered in the manner following. The 
swine-herd, Ho-ti, having gone out into 
the woods one morning, as his manner 
was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his 
cottage in the care of his eldest son [20 
Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being 
fond of playing with fire, as younkers of 
his age commonly are, let some sparks 



escape into a bundle of straw, which 
kindling quickly, spread the conflagration 
over every part of their poor mansion, 
till it was reduced to ashes. Together 
with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian 
make-shift of a building, you may think 
it), what was of much more impor- [30 
tance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, 
no less than nine in number, perished. 
China pigs have been esteemed a luxury 
all over the East from the remotest peri- 
ods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the 
utmost consternation, as you may think, 
not so much for the sake of the tenement, 
which his father and he could easily build 
up again with a few dry branches, and 
the labor of an hour or two, at any [40 
time, as for the loss of the pigs. While 
he was thinking what he should say to 
his father, and wringing his hands over 
the smoking remnants of one of those 
untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his 
nostrils, unUke any scent which he had 
before experienced. . What could it pro- 
ceed from? — not from the burnt cottage — 
he had smelt that smell before — indeed 
this was by no means the first acci- [50 
dent of the kind which had occurred 
through the negligence of this unlucky 
young fire-brand. Much less did it re- 
semble that of any known herb, weed, or 
flower. A premonitory moistening at the 
same time overflowed his nether lip. He 
knew not what to think. He next stooped 
down to feel the pig, if there were any 
signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, 
and to cool them he applied them in [60 
his booby fashion 'to his mouth. Some 
of the crumbs of the scorched skin had 
come away with his fingers, and for 
the first time in his life (in the world's life 
indeed, for before him no man had known 
it) he tasted — crackling! Again he felt 
and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn 
him so much now, still he licked his 
fingers from a sort of habit. The truth 
at length broke into his slow under- [70 
standing, that it was the pig that smelt so, 
and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, 
surrendering himself up to the newborn 
pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole 
handfuls of the scorched skin with the 
flesh next it, and was cramming it down 
his throat in his beastly fashion, when 



526 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, 
armed with retributory cudgel, and find- 
ing how affairs stood, began to rain [80 
blows upon the young rogue's shoulders, 
as thick as hailstones, which Bo-bo 
heeded not any more than if they had 
been flies. The tickling pleasure, which 
he experienced in his lower regions, had 
rendered him quite callous to any in- 
conveniences he might feel in those re- 
mote quarters. His father might lay on, 
but he could not beat him from his pig, 
till he had fairly made an end of it, [90 
when, becoming a little more sensible 
of his situation, something like the fol- 
lowing dialogue ensued. 

"You graceless whelp, what have you 
got there devouring? Is it not enough 
that you have burnt me down three 
houses with your dog's tricks, and be 
hanged to you, but you must be eating 
fire, and I know not what — what have 
you got there, I say? " [100 

"0, father, the pig, the pig, do come 
and taste how nice the burnt pig eats." 

The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. 
He cursed his son, and he cursed himself 
that ever he should beget a son that should 
eat burnt pig. 

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully 
sharpened since morning, soon raked out 
another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, 
thrust the lesser half by main force [no 
into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out 
"Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only 
taste — Lord," — with such-like barbar- 
ous ejaculations, cramming all the while 
as if he would choke. " 

Ho-ti trembled every joint while he 
grasped the abominable thing, wavering 
whether he should not put his son to 
death for an unnatural young monster, 
when the crackling scorching his fin- [120 
gers, as it had done his son's, and apply- 
ing the same remedy to them, he in his 
turn tasted some of its flavor, which, 
make what sour mouths he would for a 
pretence, proved not altogether displeas- 
ing to him. In conclusion (for the manu- 
script here is a little tedious) both father 
and son fairly sat down to the mess, and 
never left off till they had despatched all 
that remained of the litter. [130 

Bd-bo was strictly enjoined not to let 



the secret escape, for the neighbors would 
certainly have stoned them for a couple 
of abominable wretches, who could think 
of improving upon the good meat which 
God had sent them. Nevertheless, strange 
stories got about. It was observed that 
Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now 
more frequently than ever. Nothing but 
fires from this time forward. Some [140 
would break out in broad day, others in 
the night-time. As often as the sow far- 
rowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti 
to be in a blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which 
was the more remarkable, instead of chas- 
tising his son, seemed to grow more in- 
dulgent to him than ever. At length 
they were watched, the terrible mystery 
discovered, and father and son sum- 
moned to take their trial at Pekin, [150 
then an inconsiderable assize town. Evi- 
dence was given, the obnoxious food itself 
produced in court, and verdict about 
to be pronounced, when the foreman of 
the jury begged that some of the burnt 
pig, of which the culprits stood accused, 
might be handed into the box. He han- 
dled it, and they all handled it, and 
burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his 
father had done before them, and na- [160 
ture prompting to each of them the 
same remedy, against the face of all the 
facts, and the clearest charge which 
judge had ever given, — to the surprise of 
the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, 
reporters, and all present — without leav- 
ing the box, or any manner of consulta- 
tion whatever, they brought in a simul- 
taneous verdict of Not Guilty. 

The judge, who was a shrewd fel- [170 
low, winked at the manifest iniquity of 
the decision; and, when the court was 
dismissed, went privily, and bought up 
all the pigs that could be had for love or 
money. In a few days his Lordship's 
town house was observed to be on fire. 
The thing took wing, and now there was 
nothing to be seen but fires in every direc- 
tion. Fuel and pigs grew enormously 
dear all over the district. The insur- [180 
ance offices one and all shut up shop. 
People built slighter and slighter every 
day, until it was feared that the very 
science of architecture would in no long 
time be lost to the world. Thus this 



LAMB 



527 



custom of firing houses continued, till 
in process of time, says my manuscript, 
a sage arose, like our Locke,' who made a 
discovery, that the flesh of swine, or 
indeed of any other animal, might be [190 
cooked {burnt, as they called it) without 
the necessity of consuming a whole 
house to dress it. Then first began the 
rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by 
the string, or spit, came in a century or 
two later, I forget in whose dynasty. By 
such slow degrees, concludes the manu- 
script, do the most useful, and seemingly 
the most obvious arts, make their way 
among mankind. — [200 

Without placing too implicit faith in 
the account above given, it must be 
agreed, that if a worthy pretext for so 
dangerous an experiment as setting houses 
on fire (especially in these days) could be 
assigned in favor of any culinary object, 
that pretext and excuse might be found 

in ROAST PIG. 

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus 
edibilis, I will maintain it to be the [210 
most delicate — princeps obsoniorum. 

I speak not of your grown porkers — 
things between pig and pork — those 
hobbydehoys — -but a young and tender 
suckling — under a moon old — guiltless 
as yet of the sty — with no original speck 
of the amor immunditicE, the hereditary 
failing of the first parent, yet manifest — 
his voice as yet not broken, but something 
between a childish treble and a grum- [220 
ble — the mild forerunner, or prceludium, 
of a grunt. 

He must be roasted. I am not ignorant 
that our ancestors ate them seethed, or 
boiled — -but what a sacrifice of the ex- 
terior tegument! 

There is no flavor comparable, I will 
contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, 
well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, 
as it is well called — the very teeth [230 
are invited to their share of the pleasure 
at this banquet in overcoming the coy, 
brittle resistance — with the adhesive ole- 
aginous — O call it not fat — but an in- 
definable sweetness growing up to it — 
the tender blossoming of fat — fat cropped 
in the bud — taken in the shoot — -in the 
first innocence — the cream and quin- 
tessence of the child-pig's yet pure food — 



the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal [240 
manna — or, rather, fat and lean (if it 
must be so) so blended and running into 
each other, that both together make but 
one ambrosian result, or common sub- 
stance. 

Behold him, while he is doing — it 
seemeth rather a refreshing warmth, 
than a scorching heat, that he is so passive 
to. How equably he twirleth round the 
string! — Now he is just done. To [250 
see the extreme sensibility of that tender 
age, he hath wept out his pretty eyes — 
radiant jellies — shooting stars — 

See him in the dish, his second cradle, 
how meek he lieth! — wouldst thou have 
had this innocent grow up to the gross- 
ness and indocility which too often ac- 
company maturer swinehood? Ten to 
one he would have proved a glutton, a 
sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable [260 
animal — wallowing in all manner of filthy 
conversation — from these sins he is hap- 
pily snatched away — 

"Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade. 
Death came with timely care" — 

his memory is odoriferous — no clown 
curseth, while his stomach half rejecteth, 
the rank bacon — no coalheaver bolteth 
him in reeking sausages — he hath a fair 
sepulchre in the grateful stomach of [270 
the judicious epicure — and for such a 
tomb might be content to die. 

He is the best of Sapors. Pine-apple 
is great. She is indeed almost too trans- 
cendent — a delight, if not sinful, yet so 
like to sinning, that really a tender-con- 
scienced person would do well to pause — 
too ravishing for mortal taste, she wound- 
eth and excoriateth the lips that approach 
her — like lovers' kisses, she biteth — [2S0 
she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the 
fierceness and insanity of her relish — but 
she stoppeth at the palate — she med- 
dleth not with the appetite — and the 
coarsest hunger might barter her consist- 
ently for a mutton chop. 

Pig — let me speak his praise — is no less 
provocative of the appetite, than he is 
satisfactory to the criticalness of the 
censorious palate. The strong man [290 
may batten on him, and the weakling 
refuseth not his mild juices. 



528 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, 
a bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably 
intertwisted, and not to be unravelled 
without hazard, he is — good throughout. 
No part of him is better or worse than 
another. He helpeth, as far as his little 
means extend, all around. He is the least 
envious of banquets. He is all [300 
neighbors' fare. 

I am one of those, who freely and un- 
grudgingly impart a share of the good 
things of this life which fall to their lot 
(few as mine are in this kind) to a friend. 
I protest I take as great an interest in 
my friend's pleasures, his relishes, and 
proper satisfactions, as in mine own. 
"Presents," I often say, "endear Ab- 
sents." Hares, pheasants, part- [310 
ridges, snipes, barn-door chickens (those 
"tame villatic fowl"), capons, plovers, 
brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense as 
freely as I receive them. I love to taste 
them, as it were, upon the tongue of my 
friend. But a stop must be put some- 
where. One would not, like Lear, "give 
everything." I make my stand upon pig. 
Methinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver 
of all good flavors, to extra-domicili- [320 
ate, or send out of the house, slightingly 
(under pretext of friendship, or I know 
not what) a blessing so particularly 
adapted, predestined, I may say, to my 
individual palate — it argues an insensi- 
bility. 

I remember a touch of conscience in 
this kind at school. My good old aunt, 
who never parted from me at the end 
of a holiday without stuffing a sweet- [330 
meat, or some nice thing, into my pocket, 
had dismissed me one evening with a 
smoking plum-cake, fresh from the oven. 
In my way to school (it was over London 
Bridge) a gray-headed old beggar saluted 
me (I have no doubt at this time of day 
that he was a counterfeit). I had no 
pence to console him with, and in the 
vanity of self-denial, and the very cox- 
combry of charity, school-boy-like, [340 
I made him a present of — the whole cake! 
I walked on a little, buoyed up, as one is 
on such occasions, with a sweet soothing 
of self-satisfaction; but before I had got 
to the end of the bridge, my better feelings 
returned, and I burst into tears, thinking 



how ungrateful I had been to my good 
aunt, to go and give her good gift away 
to a stranger^ that I had never seen before, 
and who might be a bad man for [350 
aught I knew; and then I thought of the 
pleasure my aunt would be taking in 
thinking that I — I myself, and not an- 
other — would eat her nice cake — and 
what should I say to her the next time I 
saw her — how naughty I was to part with 
her pretty present — and the odor of that 
spicy cake came back upon my recollec- 
tion, and the pleasure and the curiosity 
I had taken in seeing her make it, and [360 
her joy when she sent it to the oven, and 
how disappointed she would feel that I 
had never had a bit of it in my mouth 
at last — and I blamed my impertinent 
spirit of alms-giving, and out-of-place 
hypocrisy of goodness, and above all I 
wished never to see the face again of that 
insidious, good-for-nothing, old gray im- 
postor. 

Our ancestors were nice in their [370 
method of sacrificing these tender vic- 
tims. We read of pigs whipped to death 
with something of a shock, as we hear of 
any other obsolete custom. The age of 
discipline is gone by, or it would be curious 
to inquire (in a philosophical light merely) 
what effect this process might have 
towards intenerating and dulcifying a 
substance, naturally so mild and dulcet 
as the flesh of young pigs. It looks [380 
like refining a violet. Yet we should be 
cautious, while we condemn the inhu- 
manity, how we censure the wisdom of 
the practice. It might impart a gusto — 

I remember an hypothesis, argued upon 
by the young students, when I was at 
St. Omer's, and maintained with much 
learning and pleasantry on both sides, 
"Whether, supposing that the flavor of 
a pig who obtained his death by [390 
whipping {per flagellationem extremam) 
superadded a pleasure upon the palate 
of a man more intense than any possible 
suffering we can conceive in the animal, 
is man justified in using that method of 
putting the animal to death?" I forget 
the decision. 

His sauce should be considered. De- 
cidedly, a few bread crumbs, done up 
with his liver and brains, and a dash [400 



LAMB 



529 



of mild sage. But, banish, dear Mrs. 
Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion 
tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to 
your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff 
them out with plantations of the rank 
and guilty garlic; you cannot poison 
them, or make them stronger than they 
are — -but consider, he is a weakling — a 
flower. 



THE SUPERANNUATED MAN 

Sera tamen respexit 
Libertas. Virgil. 

A Clerk I was in London gay. 

O'Keefe. 

If peradventure, Reader, it has been 
thy lot to waste the golden years of thy 
life — thy shining youth — ^in the irksome 
confinement of an office; to have thy 
prison days prolonged through middle 
age down to decrepitude and silver hairs, 
without hope of -release or respite ; to have 
lived to forget that there are such things 
as holidays, or to remember them but 
as the prerogatives of childhood; [10 
then, and then only, will you be able to 
appreciate my deliverance. 

It is now six and thirty years since I 
took my seat at the desk in Mincing 
Lane. Melancholy was the transition at 
fourteen from the abundant playtime, 
and the frequently intervening vacations 
of school days, to the eight, nine, and 
sometimes ten hours' a-day attendance 
at a counting-house. But time par- [20 
tially reconciles us to anything. I gradu- 
ally became content — doggedly content, 
as wild animals in cages. 

It is true I had my Sundays to myself; 
but Sundays, admirable as the institution 
of them is for purposes of worship, are 
for that very reason the very worst 
adapted for days of unbending and recrea- 
tion. In particular, there is a gloom for 
me attendant upon a city Sunday, a [30 
weight in the air. I miss the cheerful 
cries of London, the music, and the ballad- 
singers — the buzz and stirring murmur 
of the streets. Those eternal bells de- 
press me. The closed shops repel me. 
Prints, pictures, all the glittering and 



endless succession of knacks and gew- 
gaws, and ostentatiously displayed wares 
of tradesmen, which make a weekday 
saunter through the less busy parts [40 
of the metropolis so delightful — are shut 
out. No book-stalls deliciously to idle 
over — ^No busy faces to recreate the idle 
man who contemplates them ever passing 
by— the very face of business a charm by 
contrast to his temporary relaxation from 
it. Nothing to be seen but unhappy 
countenances — or half-happy at best — 
of emancipated 'prentices and little trades- 
folks, with here and there a servant [50 
maid that has got leave to go out, who, 
slaving all the week, with the habit has 
lost almost the capacity of enjoying a 
free hour; and livelily expressing the hol- 
lowness of a day's pleasuring. The very 
strollers in the fields on that day looked 
anything but comfortable. 

But besides Sundays I had a day at 
Easter, and a day at Christmas, with a 
full week in the summer to go and air [60 
myself in my native fields of Hertfordshire. 
This last was a great indulgence; and the 
prospect of its recurrence, I believe, 
alone kept me up through the year, and 
made my durance tolerable. But when 
the week came round, did the glittering 
phantom of the distance keep touch with 
me? or rather was it not a series of seven 
uneasy days, spent in restless pursuit of 
pleasure, and a wearisome anxiety to [70 
find out how to make the most of them? 
Where was the quiet, where the promised 
rest? Before I had a taste of it, it was 
vanished. I was at the desk again, count- 
ing upon the fifty-one tedious weeks that 
must intervene before such another snatch 
would come. Still the prospect of its 
coming threw something of an illumina- 
tion upon the darker side of my captivity. 
Without it, as I have said, I could [80 
scarcely have sustained my thraldom. 

Independently of the rigors of attend- 
ance, I have ever been haunted with a 
sense (perhaps a mere caprice) of inca- 
pacity for business. This, during my 
latter years, had increased to such a degree, 
that it was visible in all the lines of my 
countenance. My health and my good 
spirits flagged. I had perpetually a 
dread of some crisis, to which I should [90 



530 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



be found unequal. Besides my daylight 
servitude, I served over again all night in 
my sleep, and would awake with terrors 
of imaginary false entries, errors in my 
accounts, and the like. I was fifty years 
of age, and no prospect of emancipation 
presented itself. I had grown to my desk, 
as it were; and the wood had entered into 
my soul. 

My fellows in the office would [loo 
sometimes rally me upon the trouble 
legible in my countenance; but I did not 
know that it had raised the suspicions 
of any of my employers, when on the 5th 
of last month, a day ever to be remem- 
bered by me, L , the junior partner 

in the firm, calling me on one side, di- 
rectly taxed me with my bad looks, and 
frankly inquired the cause of them. So 
taxed, I honestly made confession of [no 
my infirmity, and added that I was afraid 
I should eventually be obliged to resign 
his service. He spoke some words of 
course to hearten me, and there the mat- 
ter rested. A whole week I remained 
laboring under the impression that I had 
acted imprudently in my disclosure; 
that I had fooHshly given a handle against 
myself, and had been anticipating my 
own dismissal. A week passed in [120 
this manner, the most anxious one, I 
verily believe, in my whole life, when on 
the evening of the 12th of April, just as 
I was about quitting my desk to go home 
(it might be about eight o'clock) I re- 
ceived an awful summons to attend the 
presence of the whole assembled firm in 
the formidable back parlor. I thought 
now my time is surely come, I have done 
for myself, I am going to be told [130 
that they have no longer occasion for 

me. L , I could see, smiled at the 

terror I was in, which was a little relief 
to me, — when to my utter astonishment 

B , the eldest partner, began a formal 

harangue to me on the length of my 
services, my very meritorious conduct 
during the whole of the time (the deuce, 
thought I, how did he find out that? I 
protest I never had the confidence to [140 
think as much). He went on to descant 
on the expediency of retiring at a certain 
time of Ufe (how my heart panted!), and 
asking me a few questions as to the 



amount of my own property, of which I 
have a little, ended with a proposal, to 
which his three partners nodded a grave 
assent, that I should accept from the 
house, which I had served so well, a 
pension for life to the amount of two- [150 
thirds of my accustomed salary — a mag- 
nificent offer! I do not know what I 
answered between surprise and gratitude, 
but it was understood that I accepted 
their proposal, and I was told that I was 
free from that hour to leave their service. 
I stammered out a bow, and at just ten 
minutes after eight I went home — for 
ever. This noble benefit — gratitude for- 
bids me to conceal their names — I owe [160 
to the kindness of the most munificent 
firm in the world— the house of Boldero, 
Merryweather, Bosanquet, and Lacy. 

Esto perpetual 

For the first day or two I felt stunned, 
overwhelmed. I could only apprehend 
my felicity; I was too confused to taste 
it sincerely. I wandered .about, thinking 
I was happy, and knowing that I was not. 
I was in the condition of a prisoner in [i 70 
the Old Bastiie, suddenly let loose after a 
forty years' confinement. I could scarce 
trust myself with myself. It was like 
passing out of Time into Eternity — for it 
is a sort of Eternity for a man to have 
his Time all to himself. It seemed to 
me that I had more time on my hands 
than I could ever manage. From a poor 
man, poor in Time, I was suddenly lifted 
up into a vast revenue; I could see no [180 
end of my possessions; I wanted some 
steward, or judicious bailiff, to manage 
my estates in Time for me. And here 
let me caution persons grown old in active 
business, not lightly, nor without weigh- 
ing their own resources, to forego their 
customary employment all at once, for 
there may be danger in it. I feel it by 
myself, but I know that my resources are 
sufficient; and now that those first [190 
giddy raptures have subsided, I have a 
quiet home-feeling of the blessedness of 
my condition. I am in no hurry. Hav- 
ing all holidays, I am as though I had 
none. If Time hung heavy upon me, I 
could walk it away; but I do not walk all 
day long, as I used to do in those old 



LAMB 



531 



transient holidays, thirty miles a day, to 
make the most of them. If Time were 
troublesome, I could read it away, [200 
but I do not read in that violent measure, 
with which, having no Time my own but 
candlelight Time, I used to weary out 
my head and eye-sight in by-gone winters. 
I walk, read, or scribble (as now) just 
when the fit seizes me. I no longer hunt 
after pleasure; I let it come to me. I am 
like the man 

" that's born, and has his years come 
to him. 
In some green desert." [210 

"Years," you will say; "what is this su- 
perannuated simpleton calculating upon? 
He has already told us he is past fifty." 

I have indeed lived nominally fifty 
years, but deduct out of them the hours 
which I have lived to other people, and 
not to myself, and you will find me still a 
young fellow. For that is the only true 
Time, which a man can properly call his 
own, that which he has all to himself; [220 
the rest, though in some sense he may 
be said to live it, is other people's time, 
not his. The remnant of my poor days, 
long or short, is at least multiplied for me 
threefold. My ten next years, if I stretch 
so far, will be as long as any preceding 
thirty. 'Tis a fair rule-of-three sum. 

Among the strange fantasies which 
beset me at the commencement of my 
freedom, and of which all traces are [230 
not yet gone, one was, that a vast tract 
of time had intervened since I quitted 
the Counting House. I could not conceive 
of it as an affair of yesterday. The part- 
ners, and the clerks with whom I had for 
so many years, and for so many hours in 
each day of the year been so closely 
associated — being suddenly removed from 
them — they seemed as dead to me. There 
is a fine passage, which may serve to [240 
illustrate this fancy, in a tragedy by Sir 
Robert Howard, speaking of a friend's 
death: — 

" 'Twas but just now he went away; 
I have not since had time to shed a tear; 
And yet the distance does the same appear 
As if he had been a thousand years from 

me. 
Time takes no measure in Eternity." 



To dissipate this awkward feeling, I 
have been fain to go among them [250 
once or twice since; to visit my old desk- 
fellows — my co-brethren of the quill — 
that I had left below in the state militant. 
Not all the kindness with which they 
received me could quite restore to me that 
pleasant familiarity, which I had hereto- 
fore enjoyed among them. We cracked 
some of our old jokes, but methought they 
went off but faintly. My old desk; the 
peg where I hung my hat, were ap- [260 
propriated to another. I knew it must 

be. but I could not take it kindly. D 1 

take me if I did not feel some remorse — 
beast, if I had not, — at quitting my 
old compeers, the faithful partners of 
my toils for six and thirty years, that 
smoothed for me with their jokes and 
conundrums the ruggedness of my pro- 
fessional road. Had it been so rugged 
then after all? or was I a coward [270 
simply? Well, it is too late to repent; and 
I also know, that these suggestions are a 
common fallacy of the mind on such 
occasions. But my heart smote me. I 
had violently broken the bands betwixt 
us. It was at least not courteous. I 
shall be some time before I get quite 
reconciled to the separation. Farewell, 
old cronies, yet not for long, for again 
and again I will come among ye, if I [280 

shall have your leave. Farewell, Ch , 

dry, sarcastic, and friendly I Do , 

mild, slow to move, and gentlemanly! 

PI , officious to do, and to volunteer, 

good services! — and thou, thou dreary 
pile, fit mansion for a Gresham or a Whit- 
tington of old stately House of Mer- 
chants; with thy labyrinthine passages, 
and light-excluding, pent-up offices, where 
candles for one half the year sup- [290 
plied the place of the sun's light; unhealthy 
contributor to my weal, stern fosterer of 
my living, farewell! In thee remain, and 
not in the obscure collection of some 
wandering bookseller, my " works ! " There 
let them rest, as I do from my labors, 
piled on thy massy shelves, more MSS. 
in folio than ever Aquinas left, and full as 
useful! My mantle I bequeath among ye. 

A fortnight has passed since the [300 
date of my first communication. At that 
period I was approaching to tranquillity, 



532 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



but had not reached it. I boasted of a 
calm indeed, but it was comparative only. 
Something of the first flutter was left; 
an unsettling sense of novelty; the dazzle 
to weak eyes of unaccustomed light. I 
missed my old chains, forsooth, as if they 
had been some necessary part of my 
apparel. I was a poor Carthusian, [310 
from strict cellular discipline suddenly 
by some revolution returned upon the 
world. I am now as if I had never been 
other than my own master. It is natural 
to me to go where I please, to do what I 
please. I find myself at eleven o'clock 
in the day in Bond Street, and it seems to 
me that I have been sauntering there at 
that very hour for years past. I digress 
into Soho, to explore a book-stall. [320 
Methinks I have been thirty years a col- 
lector. There is nothing strange nor 
new in it. I find myself before a fine 
picture in the morning. Was it ever 
otherwise? What is become of Fish Street 
Hill? Where is Fenchurch Street? Stones 
of old Mincing Lane which I have worn 
with my daily pilgrimage for six and 
thirty years, to the footsteps of what 
toil-worn clerk are your everlasting [330 
flints now vocal? I indent the gayer 
flags of Pall Mall. It is 'Change time, 
and I am strangely among the Elgin 
marbles. It was no hyperbole when I 
ventured to compare the change in my 
condition to a passing into another world. 
Time stands still in a manner to me. I 
have lost all distinction of season. I do 
not know the day of the week, or of the 
month. Each day used to be indi- [340 
vidually felt by me in its reference to the 
foreign post days; in its distance from, 
or propinquity to the next Sunday. I 
had my Wednesday feelings, my Satur- 
day nights' sensations. The genius of 
each day was upon me distinctly during 
the whole of it, affecting my appetite, 
spirits, &c. The phantom of the next 
day, mth the dreary five to follow, sate as 
a load upon my poor Sabbath recrea- [350 
tions. What charm has washed the 
Ethiop white? What is gone of Black 



Monday? All days are the same. Sun- 
day itself — that unfortunate failure of a 
hoUday as it too often proved, what with 
my sense of its fugitiveness, and over- 
care to get the greatest quantity of 
pleasure out of it — is melted down into 
a week day. I can spare to go to church 
now, without grudging the huge [360 
cantle which it used to seem to cut out 
of the holiday. I have Time for every- 
thing. I can visit a sick friend. I can 
interrupt the man of much occupation 
when he is busiest. I can insult over him 
with an invitation to take a day's pleasure 
with me to Windsor this fine May- 
morning. It is Lucretian pleasure to 
behold the poor drudges, whom I have 
left behind in the world, carking and [370 
caring; like horses in a mill, drudging on 
in the same eternal round — and what is 
it all for? A man can never have too 
much Time to himself, nor too little to 
do. Had I a little son, I would christen 
him NOTHING-TO-DO; he should do noth- 
ing. Man, I verily believe, is out of his 
element, as long as he is operative. I am 
altogether for the life contemplative. 
Will no kindly earthquake come and [380 
swallow up those accursed cotton mills? 
Take me that lumber of a desk there, 
and bowl it down 

As low as to the fiends. 

I am no longer , clerk to the firm 

of, &c. I am Retired Leisure. I am to 
be met with in trim gardens. I am already 
come to be known by my vacant face and 
careless gesture, perambulating at no 
fixed pace nor with any settled pur- [390 
pose. I walk about; not to and from. 
They tell me, a certain cum dignitate air, 
that has been buried so long with my 
other good parts, has begun to shoot forth 
in my person. I grow into gentility per- 
ceptibly. When I take- up a newspaper 
it is to read the state of the opera. Opus 
operatum est. I have done all that I came 
into this world to do. I have worked 
task-work, and have the rest of the [400 
day to myself. 



HAZLITT 



533 



WILLIAM HAZLITT (1778-1830) 

THE FIGHT 

-The fight, the fight's the thing 



Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the 
King." 

Where there's a will, there's a way. — I 
said so to myself, as I walked down 
Chancery-lane, about half-past six o'clock 
on Monday the loth of December, to 
inquire at Jack Randall's where the fight 
the next day was to be; and I found "the 
proverb" nothing "musty" in the present 
instance. I was determined to see this 
fight, come what would, and see it I did, 
in great style. It was my first fight, [lo 
yet it more than answered my expecta- 
tions. Ladies! it is to you I dedicate this 
description; nor let it seem out of charac- 
ter for the fair to notice the exploits of the 
brave. Courage and modesty are the 
old English virtues; and may they never 
look cold and askance on one another! 
Think, ye fairest of the fair, loveliest of 
the lovely kind, ye practisers of soft en- 
chantment, how many more ye kill [20 
with poisoned baits than ever fell in the 
ring: and listen with subdued air and 
without shuddering, to a tale tragic only 
in appearance, and sacred to the Fancy! 

I was going down Chancery-lane, think- 
ing to ask at Jack Randall s where the 
fight was to be, when looking through 
the glass door of the Hole in The Wall, 
I heard a gentleman asking the same 
question at Mrs. Randall, as the [30 
author of Waverley would express it. 
Now Mrs. Randall stood answering the 
gentleman's question, with the authen- 
ticity of the lady of the Champion of the 
Light Weights. Thinks I, I'll wait till 
this person comes out, and learn from 
him how it is. For to say a truth, I was 
not fond of going into this house of call 
for heroes and philosophers, ever since 
the owner of it (for Jack is no gentle- [40 
man) threatened once upon a time to 
kick me out of doors for wanting a mut- 
ton-chop at his hospitable board, when 
the conqueror in thirteen battles was 
more full of blue ruin than of good man- 
ners. I was the more mortified at this 



repulse, inasmuch as I had heard Mr. 
James Simpkins, hosier in the Strand, 
one day when the character of the Hole 
in the Wall was brought in question, [50 
observe — " The house is a very good house, 
and the company quite genteel: I have 
been there myself!" Remembering this 
unkind treatment of mine host, to which 
mine hostess was also a party, and not 
wishing to put her in unquiet thoughts 
at a time jubilant like the present, I 
waited at the door, when who should 
issue forth but my friend Jo. Toms, 
and turning suddenly up Chancery- [60 
lane with that quick jerk and impatient 
stride which distinguishes a lover of the 
Fancy, I said, "I'll be hanged if that 
fellow is not going to the fight, and is on 
his way to get me to go with him." So 
it proved in effect, and we agreed to ad- 
journ to my lodgings to discuss matters 
with that cordiality which makes old 
friends like new, and new friends like old, 
on great occasions. We are cold [70 
to others only when we are dull in our- 
selves, and have neither thoughts nor 
feelings to impart to them. Give a man 
a topic in his head, a throb of pleasure in 
his heart, and he will be glad to share it 
with the first person he meets. Toms 
and I, though we seldom meet, were an 
alter idem on this memorable occasion, 
and had not an idea that we did not 
candidly impart; and "so carelessly [80 
did we fleet the time," that I wish no 
better, when there is another fight, than 
to have him for a companion on my jour- 
ney down, and to return with my friend 
Jack Pigott, talking of what was to happen 
or of what did happen, with a noble 
subject always at hand, and liberty 
to digress to others whenever they offered. 
Indeed, on my repeating the lines from 
Spenser in an involuntary fit of en- [90 
thusiasm, 

"What more felicity can fall to creature 
Than to enjoy delight with liberty?" 

my last-named ingenious friend stopped 
me by saying that this, translated into 
the vulgate, meant "Going to see a fiight." 
Jo. Toms and I could not settle about 
the method of going down. He said there 
was a caravan, he understood, to start 



534 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



from Tom Belcher's at two, which [loo 
would go there right out and back again 
the next day. Now I never travel all 
night, and said I should get a cast to 
Newbury by one of the mails. Jo. swore 
the thing was impossible, and I could 
only answer that I had made up my mind 
to it. In short, he seemed to me to waver, 
said he only came to see if I was going, 
had letters to write, a cause coming on 
the day after, and faintly said at [no 
parting (for I was bent on setting out 
that moment) — "Well, we meet at Phil- 
ippi!" I made the best of my way to 
Piccadilly. The mail coach stand was 
bare. "They are all gone," said I — 
"this is always the way with me — in the 
instant I lose the future — if I had not 
stayed to pour out that last cup of tea, 
I should have been just in time" — and 
cursing my folly and ill-luck to- [120 
gether, without inquiring at the coach- 
office whether the mails were gone or 
not, I walked on in despite, and to punish 
my own dilatoriness and want of deter- 
mination. At any rate, I would not 
turn back: I might get to Hounslow, or 
perhaps farther, to be on my road the 
next morning. I passed Hyde Park 
Corner (my Rubicon), and trusted to 
fortune. Suddenly I heard the clat- [130 
tering of a Brentford stage, and the fight 
rushed full upon my fancy. I argued 
(not unwisely) that even a Brentford 
coachman was better company than my 
own thoughts (such as they were just 
then), and at his invitation mounted the 
box with him. I immediately stated my 
case to him — namely, my quarrel with 
myself for missing the Bath or Bristol 
mail, and my determination to get [140 
on in consequence as well as I could, with- 
out any disparagement or insulting com- 
parison between longer or shorter stages. 
It is a maxim with me that stage-coaches 
and consequently stage-coachmen, are 
respectable in proportion to the distance 
they have to travel; so I said nothing 
on that subject to my Brentford friend. 
Any incipient tendency to an abstract 
proposition, or (as he might have con- [150 
strued it) to a personal reflection of this 
kind, was however nipped in the bud; for 
I had no sooner declared indignantly that 



I had missed the mails, than he flatly 
denied that they were gone along, and 
lo! at the instant three of them drove 
by in rapid, provoking, orderly succes- 
sion, as if they would devour the ground 
before them. Here again I seemed in 
the contradictory situation of the [160 
man in Dryden who exclaims: 

"I follow Fate, which does too hard 
pursue!" 

If I had stopped to inquire at the 
White Horse Cellar, which would not 
have taken me a minute, I should now 
have been driving down the road in all 
the dignified unconcern and ideal perfec- 
tion of mechanical conveyance. The 
Bath mail I had set my mind upon, and 
I had missed it, as I missed every- [170 
thing else, by my own absurdity, in 
putting the will for the deed, and aiming 
at ends without employing means. " Sir," 
said he of the Brentford, "the Bath mail 
will be up presently; my brother-in-law 
drives it, and I will engage to stop him 
if there is a place empty." I almost 
doubted my good genius; but, sure enough, 
up it drove like lightning, and stopped 
directly at the call of the Brentford [180 
Jehu. I would not have believed this 
possible, but the brother-in-law of a 
mail-coach driver is himself no mean man. 
I was transferred without loss of time from 
the top of one coach to that of the other, 
desired the guard to pay my fare to the 
Brentford coachman for me as I had no 
change, was accommodated with a great- 
coat, put up my umbrella to keep off a 
drizzling mist, and we began to cut [190 
through the air like an arrow. The mile- 
stones disappeared one after another, the 
rain kept off; Tom Turtle, the trainer, 
sat before me on the coach-box, with 
whom I exchanged civilities as a gentle- 
man going to the fight; the passion that 
had transported me an hour before was 
subdued to pensive regret and conjec- 
tural musing on the next day's battle; I 
was promised a place inside at Read- [200 
ing, and upon the whole, I thought my- 
self a lucky fellow. Such is the force of 
imagination! On the outside of any 
other coach on the loth of December, 
with a Scotch mist drizzling through the 



HAZLITT 



535 



cloudy moonlight air, I should have been 
:old, comfortless, impatient and, no doubt, 
wet through; but seated on the Royal 
mail, I felt warm and comfortable, the 
air did me good, the ride did me [210 
good, I was pleased with the progress 
we had made, and confident that all 
would go well through the journey. When 
I got inside at Reading, I found Turtle 
and a stout valetudinarian, whose cos- 
tume bespoke him one of the Fancy, and 
who had risen from a three months' sick 
bed to get into the mail to see the fight. 
They were intimate, and we fell into a 
lively discourse. My friend the [220 
trainer was confined in his topics to fight- 
ing dogs and men, to bears and badgers; 
beyond this he was "quite chap-fallen," 
had not a word to throw at a dog, or 
indeed very wisely fell asleep, when any 
other game was started. The whole art 
of training (I, however, learned from 
him) consists in two things, exercise and 
abstinence, abstinence and exercise, re- 
peated alternately and without end. [230 
A yolk of an egg with a spoonful of rum 
in it is the first thing in a morning, and 
then a walk of six miles till breakfast. 
This meal consists of a plentiful supply of 
tea and toast and beef-steaks. Then 
another six or seven miles till dinner- 
time, and another supply of solid beef or 
mutton with a pint of porter, and perhaps, 
at the utmost, a couple of glasses of sherry. 
Martin trains on water, but this in- [240 
creases his infirmity on another very 
dangerous side. The Gas-man takes now 
and then a chirping glass launder the rose) 
to console him, during a six weeks' proba- 
tion, for the absence of Mrs. Hickman — 
an agreeable woman, with (I understand) 
a pretty fortune of two hundred pounds. 
How matter presses on me! What stub- 
born things are facts! How inexhaustible 
is nature and art! "It is well," as [250 
I once heard Mr. Richmond observe, "to 
see a variety." He was speaking of 
cock-fighting as an edifying spectacle. 
I cannot deny that one learns more of 
what is (I do not say of what ought to be) 
in this desultory mode of practical study, 
than from reading the same book twice 
over, even though it should be a moral 
treatise. Where was 1? I was sitting at 



dinner with the candidate for the [260 
honors of the ring, "where good digestion 
waits on appetite, and health on both." 
Then follows an hour of social chat and 
native glee; and afterwards, to another 
breathing over heathy hill or dale. Back 
to supper, and then to bed, and up by 
six again. — Our hero 

"Follows so the ever-running sun 
With profitable ardor" — 

to the day that brings him victory [270 
or defeat in the green fairy circle. Is not 
this life more sweet than mine? I was 
going to say; but I will not libel any life 
by comparing it to mine, which is (at the 
date of these presents) bitter as colo- 
quintida and the dregs of aconitum ! 

The invalid in the Bath mail soared a 
pitch above the trainer, and did not sleep 
so sound, because he had "more figures 
and more fantasies." We talked the [280 
hours away merrily. He had faith in 
surgery, for he had had three ribs set right, 
that had been broken in a turn-up at 
Belcher's, but thought physicians old 
women, for they had no antidote in their 
catalogue for brandy. An indigestion 
is an excellent common-place for two 
people that never met before. By way of 
ingratiating myself, I told him the story of 
my doctor, who, on my earnestly rep- [290 
resenting to him that I thought his regi- 
men had done me harm, assured me that 
the whole pharmacopeia contained noth- 
ing comparable to the prescription he 
had given me; and, as a proof of its un- 
doubted efficacy, said that "he had had 
one gentleman with my complaint under 
his hands for the last fifteen years." 
This anecdote made my companion shake 
the rough sides of his three great- [300 
coats with boisterous laughter; and Turtle, 
starting out of his sleep, swore he knew 
how the fight would go, for he had had a 
dream about it. Sure enough the rascal 
told us how the first three rounds went 
off, but his "dream," like others, "de- 
noted a foregone conclusion." He knew 
his men. The moon now rose in silver 
state, and I ventured, with some hesita- 
tion, to point out this object of [310 
placid beauty, with the blue serene be- 
yond, to the man of science, to which 



536 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



his ear he "seriously inclined," the more 
as it gave promise (Tun beau jour for the 
morrow, and showed the ring undrenched 
by envious showers, arrayed in sunny 
smiles. Just then, all going on well, I 
thought on my friend Toms, whom I 
had left behind, and said innocently, 
"There was a blockhead of a fellow [320 
I left in town, who said there was no 
possibility of getting down by the mail, 
and talked of going by a caravan from 
Belcher's at two in the morning, after he 
had written some letters." "Why," said 
he of the lapels, "I should not wonder if 
that was the very person we saw running 
about like mad from one coach-door to 
another, and asking if any one had seen a 
friend of his, a gentleman going to [330 
the fight, whom he had missed stupidly 
enough by staying to write a note." 
"Pray, sir," said my fellow traveller, 
"had he a plaid cloak on?" — "Why, no," 
said I, "not at the time I left him, but 
he very well might afterwards, for he 
offered to lend me one." The plaid cloak 
and the letter decided the thing. Joe, 
sure enough, was in the Bristol mail, 
which preceded us by about fifty [340 
yards. This was droll enough. We had 
now but a few miles to our place of des- 
tination, and the first thing I did on 
ahghting at Newbury, both coaches stop- 
ping at the same time, was to call out, 
"Pray, is there a gentleman in that mail 
of the name of Toms?" "No," said Joe, 
borrowing something of the vein of Gilpin, 
"for I have just got out." "Well!" says 
he, "this is lucky; but you don't [350 
know how vexed I was to miss you; for," 
added he, lowering his voice, "do you 
know when I left you I went to Belcher's 
to ask about the caravan, and Mrs. 
Belcher said very obligingly she couldn't 
tell about that, but there were two gentle- 
men who had taken places by the mail 
and were gone on in a landau, and she 
could frank us. It's a pity I didn't meet 
with you; we could then have got [360 
down for nothing. But mum's the word." 
It's the devil for any one to tell me a 
secret, for it's sure to come out in print. 
I do not care so much to gratify a friend, 
but the public ear is too great a tempta- 
tion to me. 



Our present business was to get beds 
and a supper at an inn; but this was no 
easy task. The pubHc-houses were full, 
and where you saw a light at a private [370 
house, and people poking their heads out 
of the casement to see what was going on, 
they instantly put them in and shut the 
window, the moment you seemed advanc- 
ing with a suspicious overture for ac- 
commodation. Our guard and coachman 
thundered away at the outer gate of the 
Crown for some time without effect — 
such was the greater noise within; and 
when the doors were unbarred, and [380 
we got admittance, we found a party as- 
sembled in the kitchen round a good hos- 
pitable fire, some sleeping, others drinking,' 
others talking on politics and on the fight. 
A tall English yeoman (something like 
Matthews in the face, and quite as great 
a wag)— 

"A lusty man to ben an abbot able" 

was making such a prodigious noise about 
rent and taxes, and the price of corn [390 
now and formerly, that he had prevented 
us from being heard at the gate. The 
first thing I heard him say was to a shuf- 
fling fellow who wanted to be off a bet 
for a shilling glass of brandy and water — 
"Confound it, man, don't be insipid/" 
Thinks I, that is a good phrase. It was a 
good omen. He kept it up so all night, 
nor flinched with the approach of morn- 
ing. He was a fine fellow, with [400 
sense, wit, and spirit, a hearty body and 
a joyous mind, free-spoken, frank, con- 
vivial — one of that true English breed 
that went with Harry the Fifth to the 
siege of Harfleur — "standing like gray- 
hounds in the slips," &c. We ordered 
tea and eggs (beds were soon found to be 
out of the question) and this fellow's con- 
versation was satice piquante. It did 
one's heart good to see him brandish [410 
his oaken towel and to hear him talk. 
He made mince-meat of a drunken, stupid, 
red-faced, quarrelsome, frowsy farmer, 
whose nose "he moralized into a thousand 
similes," making it out a firebrand like 
Bardolph's. "I'll tell you what, my 
friend," says he, "the landlady has only 
to keep you here to save fire and candle. 
If one was to touch your nose, it would 



HAZLITT 



537 



go off like a piece of charcoal." At [420 
this the other only grinned like an idiot, 
the sole variety in his purple face being 
his little peering gray eyes and yellow- 
teeth; called for another glass, swore he 
would not stand it; and after many at- 
tempts to provoke his humorous antago- 
nist to single combat, which the other 
turned off (after working him up to a 
ludicrous pitch of choler) with great ad- 
roitness, he fell quietly asleep with [430 
a glass of liquor in his hand, which he 
could not lift to his head. His laughing 
persecutor made a speech over him, and 
turning to the opposite side of the room, 
where they were all sleeping in the midst 
of this "loud and furious fun," said, 
"There's a scene for Hogarth to paint. 
I think he and Shakespeare were our two 
best men at copying life." This confirmed 
me in my good opinion of him. Ho- [440 
garth, Shakespeare, and Nature, were 
just enough for him (indeed for any man) 
to know. I said, "You read Cobbett, 
don't you? At least," says I, "you talk 
just as well as he writes." He seemed to 
doubt this. But I said, "We have an 
hour to spare: if you'll get pen, ink, and 
paper, and keep on talking, I'll write 
down what you say; and if it doesn't 
make a capital 'Political Register' [450 
I'll forfeit my head. You have kept me 
alive to-night, however. I don't know 
what I should have done without you." 
He did not dislike this view of the thing, 
nor my asking if he was not about the 
size of Jem Belcher; and told me soon 
afterw^ards, in the confidence of friendship, 
that "the circumstance which had given 
him nearly the greatest concern in his 
life, was Cribb's beating Jem after he [460 
had lost his eye by racket-playing." — 
The morning dawns; that dim but yet 
clear light appears, which weighs like 
solid bars of metal on the sleepless eye- 
lids; the guests drop down from their 
chambers one by one — but it was too late 
to think of going to bed now (the clock 
was on the stroke of seven), we had 
nothing for it but to find a barber's (the 
pole that glittered in the morning sun [470 
lighted us to his shop), and then a nine 
miles' march to Hungerford. The day 
was fine, the sky was blue, the mists were 



retiring from the marshy ground, the 
path was tolerably dry, the sitting-up 
all night had not done us much harm — 
at least the cause was good; we talked of 
this and that with amicable difference, 
roving and sipping of many subjects, 
but still invariably we returned to the [480 
fight. At length, a mile to the left of 
Hungerford, on a gentle eminence, we 
saw the ring surrounded by covered carts, 
gigs, and carriages, of which hundreds 
had passed us on the road; Toms gave a 
youthful shout, and we hastened down a 
narrow lane to the scene of action. 

Reader, have you ever seen a fight? 
If not, you have a pleasure to come, at 
least if it is a fight like that between [490 
the Gas-man and Bill Neate. The crowd 
was very great when we arrived on the 
spot; open carriages were coming up, 
with streamers flying and music playing; 
and the country people were pouring 
in over hedge and ditch in all directions, to 
see their hero beat or be beaten. The 
odds were still on Gas, but only about 
five to four. Gully had been dowm to try 
Neate, and had backed him con- [500 
siderably, which was a damper to the 
sanguine confidence of the adverse party. 
About two hundred thousand pounds were 
pending. The Gas says he has lost 
3000/. which were promised him by dif- 
ferent gentlemen if he had won. He had 
presumed too much on himself, which 
had made others presume on him. This 
spirited and formidable young fellow 
seems to have taken for his motto [510 
the old maxim, that "there are three 
things necessary to success in life — 
Impudence! Impudence! hnpudence!^'' It 
is so in matters of opinion, but not in the 
Fancy, which is the most practical of all 
things, though even here confidence is 
half the battle, but only half. Our friend 
had vapored and swaggered too much, 
as if he wanted to grin and bully his ad- 
versary out of the fight. "Alas! the [520 
Bristol man was not so tamed!" "This 
is the grave-digger" (w^ould Tom Hickman 
exclaim in the moments of intoxication 
from gin and success, showing his tre- 
mendous right hand), "this will send 
many of them to their long homes; I 
haven't done with them yet!" Why 



53& 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



should he — though he had licked four of 
the best men within the hour, yet why 
should he threaten to inflict dis- [530 
honorable chastisement on my old master 
Richmond, a veteran going off the stage, 
and who had borne his sable honors 
meekly? Magnanimity, my dear Tom, 
and bravery, should be inseparable. Or 
why should he go up to his antagonist, 
the first time he ever saw him at the Fives 
Court, and measuring him from head 
to foot with a glance of contempt, as 
Achilles surveyed Hector, say to [540 
him, "What, are you Bill Neate? I'll 
knock more blood out of that great car- 
case of thine, this day fortnight, than 
you ever knocked out of a bullock's!" 
It was not manly, 'twas not fighter-like. 
If he was sure of the victory (as he was 
not), the less said about it the better. 
Modesty should accompany the Fancy 
as its shadow. The best men were always 
the best behaved. Jem Belcher, the [550 
Game Chicken, (before whom the Gas- 
man could not have lived) were civil, 
silent men. So is Cribb, so is Tom Belcher, 
the most elegant of sparrers, and not a 
man for every one to take by the nose. 
I enlarged on this topic in the mail (while 
Turtle was asleep), and said very wisely 
(as I thought) that impertinence was a 
part of no profession. A boxer was 
bound to beat his man, but not to [560 
thrust his fist, either actually or by im- 
plication, in every one's face. Even a 
highwayman, in the way of trade, may 
blow out your brains, but if he uses foul 
language at the same time, I should say 
he was no gentleman. A boxer, I would 
infer, need not be a blackguard or a cox- 
comb, more than another. Perhaps I 
press this point too much on a fallen 
man — Mr. Thomas Hickman has by [570 
this time learnt that first of all lessons, 
"That man was made to mourn." He 
has lost nothing by the late fight but his 
presumption; and that every man may 
do as well without! By an over-display 
of this quality, however, the public had 
been prejudiced against him, and the 
knowing-ones were taken in. Few but 
those who had bet on him wished Gas to 
win. With my own prepossessions [580 
on the subject, the result of the nth of 



December appeared to me as fine a piece 
of poetical justice as I had ever witnessed. 
The difference of weight between the two 
combatants (14 stone to 12) was nothing 
to the sporting men. Great, heavy, 
clumsy, long-armed Bill Neate kicked the 
beam in the scale of the Gas-man's 
vanity. The amateurs were frightened 
at his big words, and thought that [590 
they would make up for the difference of 
six feet and five feet nine. Truly, the 
Fancy are not men of imagination. 
They judge of what has been, and cannot 
conceive of anything that is to be. The 
Gas-man had won hitherto; therefore he 
must beat a man half as big again as 
himself — and that to a certainty. Be- 
sides, there are as many feuds, factions, 
prejudices, pedantic notions in the [600 
Fancy as in the state or in the schools. 
Mr. Gully is almost the only cool, sensible 
man among them, who exercises an un- 
biassed discretion, and is not a slave to 
his passions in these matters. But enough 
of reflections, and to our tale. The day, 
as I have said, was fine for a December 
morning. The grass was wet, and the 
ground miry, and ploughed up with mul- 
titudinous feet, except that, within [610 
the ring itself, there was a spot of virgin- 
green closed in and unprofaned by vulgar 
feet, that shone with dazzling brightness 
in the mid-day sun. For it was now 
noon, and we had an hour to wait. This 
is the trying time. It is then the heart 
sickens, as you think what the two cham- 
pions are about, and how short a time 
will determine their fate. After the first 
blow is struck, there is no oppor- [620 
tunity for nervous apprehensions; you 
are swallowed up in the immediate in- 
terest of the scene — but 

" Between the acting of a dreadful thing 
And the first motion, all the interim is 
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream." 

I found it so as I felt the sun's rays cling- 
ing to my back, and saw the white wintry 
clouds sink below the verge of the horizon. 
"So," I thought, "my fairest hopes [63c 
have faded from my sight! — so will the 
Gas-man's glory, or that of his adversary, 
vanish in an hour." The swells were 
parading in their white box-coats, the 



HAZLITT 



539 



outer ring was cleared with some bruises 
on the heads and shins of the rustic as- 
sembly (for the cockneys had been dis- 
tanced by the sixty-six miles) ; the time 
drew near, I had got a good stand; a 
bustle, a buzz, ran through the crowd, [640 
and from the opposite side entered Neate, 
between his second and bottle-holder. 
He rolled along, swathed in his loose 
great-coat, his knock-knees bending under 
his huge bulk; and with a modest, cheerful 
air, threw his hat into the ring. He then 
just looked round, and began quietly to 
undress; when from the other side there 
was a similar rush and an opening made, 
and the Gas-man came forward with [650 
a conscious air of anticipated triumph, 
too much like the cock-of-the-walk. He 
strutted about more than became a hero, 
sucked oranges with a supercilious air, 
and threw away the skin with a toss of 
his head, and went up and looked at 
Neate, which was an act of supererogation. 
The only sensible thing he did was, as 
he strode away from the modern Ajax, 
to fling out his arms, as if he wanted [660 
to try whether they would do their work 
that day. By this time they had stripped, 
and presented a strong contrast in appear- 
ance. If Neate was like Ajax, "with 
Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear" the 
pugilistic reputation of all Bristol, Hick- 
man might be compared to Diomed, 
light, vigorous, elastic, and his back glis- 
tened in the sun, as he moved about, like 
a panther's hide. There was now a [670 
dead pause — attention was awe-struck. 
Who, at that moment, big with a great 
event, did not draw his breath short, did 
not feel his heart throb? All was ready. 
They tossed up for the sun, and the 
Gas-man won. They were led up to the 
scratch — shook hands, and went at it. 

In the first round every one thought 
it wa.s all over. After making play a 
short time, the Gas-man flew at his [680 
adversary like a tiger, struck five blows 
in as many seconds, three first, and then 
following him as he staggered back, two 
more, right and left, and down he fell, 
a mighty ruin. There was a shout, and 
I said, "There is no standing this." 
Neate seemed like a lifeless lump of flesh 
and bone, round which the Gas-man's 



blows played with the rapidity of elec- 
tricity or hghtning, and you imag- [690 
ined he would only be lifted up to be 
knocked down again. It was as if Hick- 
man held a sword or a fire in that right 
hand of his, and directed it against an 
unarmed body. They met again, and 
Neate seemed, not cowed, but particularly 
cautious. I saw his teeth clenched to- 
gether and his brows knit close against 
the sun. He held out both his arms at 
full length straight before him, like [700 
two sledge-hammers, and raised his left 
an inch or two higher. The Gas-man 
could not get over this guard — they struck 
mutually and fell, but without advantage 
on either side. It was the same in the 
next round; but the balance of power 
was thus restored — the fate of the battle 
was suspended. No one could tell how it 
would end. This was the only moment 
in which opinion was divided; for, [710 
in the next, the Gas-man aiming a mortal 
blow at his adversary's neck, with his 
right hand, and failing from the length 
he had to reach, the other returned it 
with his left at full swing, planted a 
tremendous blow on his cheek-bone and 
eyebrow, and made a red ruin of that side 
of his face. The Gas-man went down, and 
there was another shout — a roar of tri- 
umph as the waves of fortune rolled [720 
tumultuously from side to side. This 
was a settler. Hickman got up, and 
"grinned horrible a ghastly smile," yet 
he was evidently dashed in his opinion 
of himself; it was the first time he had 
ever been so punished; all one side of his 
face was perfect scarlet, and his right 
eye was closed in dingy blackness, as he 
advanced to the fight, less confident but 
still determined. After one or two [730 
rounds, not receiving another such re- 
membrancer, he rallied and went at it 
with his former impetuosity. But in 
vain. His strength had been weakened, — 
his blows could not tell at such a distance, 
— he was obliged to fling himself at his 
adversary, and could not strike from his 
feet; and almost as regularly as he flew 
at him with his right hand, Neate warded 
the blow, or drew back out of its [740 
reach, and felled him with the return of 
i his left. There was little cautious spar- 



540 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



ring — no half-hits — no tapping and trifling, 
none of the petit-maUreship of the art — 
they were almost all knockdown blows: — - 
the fight was a good stand-up fight. The 
wonder was the half-minute time. If 
there had been a minute or more allowed 
between each round, it would have been 
intelligible how they should by de- [750 
grees recover strength and resolution; 
but to see two men smashed to the ground, 
smeared with gore, stunned, senseless, the 
breath beaten out of their bodies; and 
then, before you recover from the shock, 
to see them rise up with new strength 
and courage, stand ready to inflict or 
receive mortal offence, and rush upon 
each other "like two clouds over the 
Caspian" — this is the most as- [760 
tonishing thing of all: — this is the high 
and heroic state of man! From this time 
forward the event became more certain 
every round; and about the twelfth it 
seemed as if it must have been over. 
Hickman generaUy stood with his back 
to me; but in the scuffle he had changed 
positions, and Neate just then made a 
tremendous lunge at him, and hit him 
full in the face. It was doubtful [770 
whether he would fall backwards or 
forwards; he hung suspended for a second 
or two, and then fell back, throwing his 
hands in the air, and with his face lifted 
up to the sky. I never saw anything 
more terrific than his aspect just before 
he fell. All traces of life, of natural 
expression, were gone from him. His face 
was like a human skull, a death's head, 
spouting blood. The eyes were filled [780 
with blood, the nose streamed with blood, 
the mouth gaped blood. He was not Uke 
an actual man, but like a preternatural, 
spectral appearance, or like one of the 
figures in Dante's Inferno. Yet he fought 
on after this for several rounds, still 
striking the first desperate blow, and 
Neate standing on the defensive, and 
using the same cautious guard to the 
last, as if he had still all his work [790 
to do; and it was not until the Gas-man 
was so stunned in the seventeenth or 
eighteenth round that his senses forsook 
him and he could not come to time, that 
the battle was declared over.^ Ye who 

' Scroggins said of the Gas-man, that he thought he was 



despise the Fancy, do something to show 
as much pluck, or as much self-possession 
as this, before you assume a superiority 
which you have never given a single proof 
of by any one action in the whole [800 
course of your lives! — When the Gas-man 
came to himself the first words he uttered 
were, "Where am I? What is the mat- 
ter?" "Nothing is the matter, Tom, — 
you have lost the battle, but you are the 
bravest man alive." And Jackson whis- 
pered to him, "I am collecting a purse 
for you, Tom." — ^Vain sounds, and un- 
heard at that moment! Neate instantly 
went up and shook him cordially by [810 
the hand, and seeing some old acquaint- 
ance, began to flourish with his fists, 
calling out, "Ah, you always said I could- 
n't fight — What do you think now?" 
But all in good humor, and without any 
appearance of arrogance; only it was 
evident Bill Neate was pleased that he 
had won the fight. When it was over 
I asked Cribb if he did not think it was a 
good one. He said, "Pretty well!" [820 
The carrier-pigeons now mounted into 
the air, and one of them flew with the 
news of her husband's victory to the 
bosom of Mrs. Neate. Alas for Mrs. 
Hickman ! 

Mais an revoir, as Sir Fopling Flutter 
says. I went down with Toms; I re- 
turned with Jack Pigott, whom I met on 
the ground. Toms is a rattle brain ; Pigott 
is a sentimentalist. Now, under favor, [830 
I am a sentimentalist too — therefore I 
say nothing but that the interest of the 
excursion did not flag as I came back. 
Pigott and I marched along the causeway 
leading from Hungerford to Newbury, 
now observing the effect of a brilliant 
sun on the tawny meads or moss-colored 
cottages, now exulting in the fight, now 
digressing to some topic of general and 
elegant literature. My friend was [840 
dressed in character for the occasion, or 
like one of the Fancy: that is, with a 
double portion of great-coats, clogs, and 
overhauls; and just as we had agreed 
with a couple of coimtry lads to carry 

a man of that courage that if his hands were cut off, he 
would still fight on with the stumps — like that of Widring- 
ton, — 

" In doleful dumps. 
Who. when his legs were smitten off 

Still fought upon his stumps." — (Hazlitt's Note). 



UAZLITT 



SAT- 



his superfluous wearing-apparel to the 
next town, we were overtaken by a return 
post-chaise, into which I got, Pigott 
preferring a seat on the bar. There were 
two strangers already in the chaise, [850 
and on their observing they supposed I 
had been to the fight, I said I had, and 
concluded they had done the same. 
They appeared, however, a little shy and 
sore on the subject; and it was not till 
after several hints dropped, and ques- 
tions put, that it turned out that they 
had missed it. One of these friends had 
undertaken to drive the other there in 
his gig: they had set out, to make [860 
sure work, the day before at three in the 
afternoon. The owner of the one-horse 
vehicle scorned to ask his way, and drove 
right on to Bagshot, instead of turning 
off at Hounslow; there they stopped all 
night, and set off the next day across the 
country to Reading, from whence they 
took coach, and got down within a mile 
or two of Hungerford, just half an hour 
after the fight was over. This might [870 
be safely set down as one of the miseries 
of human life. We parted with these 
two gentlemen who had been to see the 
fight, but had returned as they went, 
at Wolhampton, where we were promised 
beds (an irresistible temptation, for Pigott 
had passed the preceding night at Hunger- 
ford as we had done at NewburyJ, and 
we turned into an old bow-windowed 
parlor with a carpet and a snug fire; [880 
and after devouring a quantity of tea, 
toast, and eggs, sat down to consider, 
during an hour of philosophic leisure, 
what we should have for supper. In the 
midst of an Epicurean deliberation be- 
tween a roasted fowl and mutton chops 
with mashed potatoes, we were inter- 
rupted by an inroad of Goths and Van- 
dals — procul este profani — not real 
flash-men, but interlopers, noisy [89c 
pretenders, butchers from To thill-fields, 
brokers from Whitechapel, who called 
immediately for pipes and tobacco, hop- 
ing it would not be disagreeable to 
the gentlemen, and began to insist 
that it was a cross. Pigott withdrew from 
the smoke and noise into another room, 
and left me to dispute the point with 
them for a couple of hours sans intermis- 



sion by the dial. The next morning [900 
we rose refreshed; and on observing that 
Jack had a pocket volume in his hand, 
in which he read in the intervals of our 
discourse, I inquired what it was, and 
learned to my particular satisfaction that 
it was a volume of the New Eloise. Ladies 
after this will you contend that a love for 
the Fancy is incompatible with the cul- 
tivation of sentiment? — We jogged on as 
before, my friend setting me up in a [910 
genteel drab great-coat and green silk 
handkerchief (which I must say became 
me exceedingly), and after stretching 
our legs for a few miles, and seeing Jack 
Randall, Ned Turner, and Scroggins pass 
on the top of one of the Bath coaches, 
we engaged with the driver of the second 
to take us to London for the usual fee. 
I got inside, and found three other passen- 
gers. One of them was an old gentle- [920 
man with an aquiline nose, powdered 
hair, and a pigtail, and who looked 
as if he had played many a rubber at 
the Bath rooms. I said to myself, he is 
very like Mr. Windham; I wish he would 
enter into conversation, that I might hear 
what fine observations would come from 
those finely- turned features. However^ 
nothing passed, till, stopping to dine at 
Reading, some inquiry was made by [930 
the company about the fight, and I gave 
(as the reader may believe) an eloquent 
and animated description of it. When we 
got into the coach again the old gentleman, 
after a graceful exordium, said he had 
when a boy been to a fight between the 
famous Broughton and George Steven- 
son, who was called the Fighting Coach- 
man, in the year 1770, with the late Mr. 
Windham. This beginning flattered [940 
the spirit of prophecy uithin me and riv- 
eted my attention. He went on — " George 
Stevenson was coachman to a friend of 
my father's. He was an old man when I 
saw him some years afterwards. He took 
hold of his own arm and said 'there was 
muscle here once, but now it is no more 
than this young gentleman's.' He added, 
'well, no matter; I have been here long, 
I am willing to go hence, and I hope I [950 
have done no more harm than another 
man.' Once," said my unknown com- 
panion, "I asked him if he had ever beat 



542 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Broughton? He said yes; that he had 
fought with him three times, and the last 
time he fairly beat him, though the world 
did not allow it. ' I'll tell you how it was, 
master. When the seconds lifted us up in 
the last round, we were so exhausted that 
neither of us could stand, and we fell [960 
upon one another, and as Master Brough- 
ton fell uppermost the mob gave it in his 
favor, and he was said to have won the 
battle. But,' says he, 'the fact was, that 
as his second (John Cuthbert) lifted him 
up, he said to him, "I'll fight no more, 
I've had enough;" which,' says Steven- 
son, 'you know gave me the victory. 
And to prove to you that this was the 
case, when John Cuthbert was on [970 
his death-bed, and they asked him if 
there was anything on his mind which he 
wished to confess, he answered, "Yes, 
that there was one thing he wished to 
set right, for that certainly Master Steven- 
son won that last fight with Master 
Broughton; for he whispered him as he 
Hfted him up in the last round of all, 
that he had had enough.'" This," said 
the Bath gentleman, " was a bit of hu- [980 
man nature;" and I have written this ac- 
count of the fight on purpose that it might 
not be lost to the world. He also stated 
as a proof of the candor of mind in this 
class of men, that Stevenson acknowl- 
edged that Broughton could have beat 
him in his best day; but that he (Brough- 
ton) was getting old in their last ren- 
counter. When we stopped in Piccadilly 
I wanted to ask the gentleman some [990 
questions about the late Mr. Windham, 
but had not courage. I got out, resigned 
my coat and green silk handkerchief to 
Pigott (loth to part with these ornaments 
of life), and walked home in high spirits. 
P. S. Toms called upon me the next day, 
to ask me if I did not think the fight was a 
complete thing. I said I thought it was. 
I hope he will relish my account of it. 



ON GOING A JOURNEY 

One of the pleasantest things in the 
world is going a journey; but I like to go 
by myself. I can enjoy society in a 
room; but out of doors, nature is company 



enough for me. I am then never less 
alone than when alone. 

"The fields his study, nature was his 
book." 

I cannot see the mt of walking and 
talking at the same time. When I am 
in the country I wish to vegetate like [10 
the country. I am not for criticising 
hedgerows and black cattle. I go out of 
town in order to forget the town and all 
that is in it. There are those who for 
this purpose go to watering-places, and 
carry the metropolis with them. I like 
more elbow-room and fewer encumbrances. 
I like solitude, when I give myself up to 
it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for 

"a friend in my retreat, [20 
Whom I may whisper solitude is sweet." 

The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect 
liberty, to think, feel, do just as one 
pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be 
free of all impediments and of all incon- 
veniences; to leave ourselves behind, much 
more to get rid of others. It is because I 
want a little breathing-space to muse on 
indifferent matters, where Contemplation 

"May plume her feathers and let grow 
her wings, [30 

That in the various bustle of resort 
Were all too ruffied, and sometimes im- 
paired," 

that I absent myself from the town for a 
while, without feeling at a loss the moment 
I am left by myself. Instead of a friend 
in a post-chaise or in a Tilbury, to ex- 
change good things with, and vary the 
same stale topics over again, for once 
let me have a truce with impertinence. 
Give me the clear blue sky over my [40 
head, and the green turf beneath my feet, 
a winding road before me, and a three 
hours' march to dinner — and then to 
thinking! It is hard if I cannot start 
some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, 
I run, I leap, I sing for joy. From the 
point of yonder rolling cloud I plunge 
into my past being, and revel there, as 
the sun-burnt Indian plimges headlong 
into the wave that wafts him to his [50 
native shore. Then long-forgotten things, 
like "sunken wrack and sumless treas- 



HAZLITT 



543 



uries," burst upon my eager sight, and I 
begin to feel, think, and be myself again. 
Instead of an awkward silence, broken 
by attempts at wit or dull common- 
places, mine is that undisturbed silence 
of the heart which alone is perfect elo- 
quence. No one likes puns, alliterations, 
antitheses, argument, and analysis [60 
better than I do; but I sometimes had 
rather be without them. "Leave, oh, 
leave me to my repose!" I have just 
now other business in hand, which would 
seem idle to you, but is with me "very 
stuff o' the conscience." Is not this wild 
rose sweet without a comment? Does 
not this daisy leap to my heart, set in its 
coat of emerald? Yet if I were to explain 
to you the circumstance that has so [70 
endeared it to me, you would only smile. 
Had I not better then keep it to myself, 
and let it serve me to brood over, from 
here to yonder craggy point, and from 
thence onward to the far-distant horizon? 
I should be but bad company all that 
way, and therefore prefer being alone. 
I have heard it said that you may, when 
the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on 
by yourself, and indulge your reveries. [80 
But this looks like a breach of man- 
ners, a neglect of others, and you are 
thinking all the time that you ought to 
rejoin your party. "Out upon such half- 
faced fellowship," say I. I like to be 
either entirely to myself, or entirely at 
the disposal of others; to talk or be silent, 
to walk or sit still, to be sociable or soli- 
tary. I was pleased with an observation 
of Mr. Cobbett's, that "he thought it [90 
a bad French custom to drink our wine 
with our meals, and that an Englishman 
ought to do only one thing at a time." 
So I cannot talk and think, or indulge in 
melancholy musing and lively conversa- 
tion by fits and starts. "Let me have a 
compo.nion of my way," says Sterne, 
"were it but to remark how the shadows 
lengthen as the sun declines." It is beau- 
tifully said; but, in my opinion, this [100 
continual comparing of notes interferes 
with the involuntan,^ impression of things 
upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment. 
If you only hint what you feel in a kind 
of dumb show, it is insipid: if you have 
to explain it, it is making a toil of a 



pleasure. You cannot read the book of 
nature without being perpetually put to 
the trouble of translating it for the benefit 
of others. I am for the synthetical [no 
method on a journey in preference to 
the analytical. I am content to lay in a 
stock of ideas then, and to examine and 
anatomise them afterwards. I want to 
see my vague notions float like the down 
of the thistle before the breeze-, and not 
to have them entangled in the briars and 
thorns of controversy. For once, I like 
to have it all my own way; and this is 
impossible unless you are alone, or [120 
in such company as I do not covet. I 
have no objection to argue a point with 
any one for twenty miles of measured 
road, but not for pleasure. If you re- 
mark the scent of a bean-field crossing 
the road, perhaps your fellow-traveller 
has no smell. If you point to a distant 
object, perhaps he is short-sighted, and 
has to take out his glass to look at it. 
There is a feeling in the air, a tone in [130 
the color of a cloud, which hits your fancy, 
but the effect of which you are unable to 
account for. There is then no sympathy, 
but an uneasy craving after it, and a dis- 
satisfaction which pursues you on the 
way, and in the end probably produces 
ill-humor. Now I never quarrel with 
myself, and take all my own conclusions 
for granted till I find it necessary to de- 
fend them against objections. It is [140 
not merely that you may not be of accord 
on the objects and circumstances that 
present themselves before you — these may 
recall a number of objects, and lead to 
associations too delicate and refined to 
be possibly communicated to others. Yet 
these I love to cherish, and sometimes 
still fondly clutch them, when I can 
escape from the throng to do so. To give 
way to our feelings before com- [150 
pany seems extravagance or affectation; 
and, on the other hand, to have to un- 
ravel this mystery of our being at ever>' 
turn, and to make others take an equal 
interest in it (others\'ise the end is not 
answered) , is a task to which few are com- 
petent. We must "give it an under- 
standing, but no tongue." INIy old friend 

C , however, could do both. He could 

go on in the most delightful explan- [160 



544 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



atory way over hill and dale, a summer's 
day, and convert a landscape into a di- 
dactic poem or a Pindaric ode. "He 
talked far above singing." If I could so 
clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing 
words, I might perhaps wish to have 
some one with me to admire the swelling 
theme; or I could be more content, were 
it possible for me still to hear his echoing 
voice in the woods of All-Foxden. They [i 70 
had "that fine madness in them which 
our first poets had"; and if they could 
have been caught by some rare instrument, 
would have breathed such strains as the 
following: 

"Here be woods as green 
As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet 
As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the 

fleet 
Face of the curled stream, with flow'rs as 

many 
As the young spring gives, and as choice 

as any; 
Here be all new delights, cool streams and 

wells, [i 80 

Arbors o'ergrown with woodbines, caves 

and dells; 
Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by 

and sing, 
Or gather rushes to make many a ring 
For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love. 
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, 
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose 

eyes 
She took eternal fire that never dies ; 
How she conveyed him softly in a sleep. 
His temples bound with poppy, to the 

steep 
Head of old Latmos, where she stoops 

each night, [190 

Gilding the mountain with her brother's 

light, 
To kiss her sweetest." 

Had I words and images at command 
like these, I would attempt to wake the 
thoughts that lie slumbering on golden 
ridges in the evening clouds: but at the 
sight of nature my fancy, poor as it is, 
droops and closes up its leaves, like 
flowers at sunset. I can make nothing 
out on the spot: I must have time to [200 
collect myself. 

In general, a good thing spoils out-of- 



door prospects: it should be reserved for 

Table-talk. L is for this reason, I 

take it, the worst company in the world 
out of doors; because he is the best 
within. I grant there is one subject on 
which it is pleasant to talk on a journey, 
and that is, what one shall have for 
supper when we get to our inn at night. [210 
The open air improves this sort of con- 
versation or friendly altercation, by set- 
ting a keener edge on appetite. Every 
mile of the road heightens the flavor of 
the viands we expect at the end of it. 
How fine it is to enter some old town, 
walled and turreted, just at approach of 
nightfall, or to come to some straggling 
village, with the lights streaming through 
the surrounding gloom; and then, after [220 
inquiring for the best entertainment that 
the place affords, to "take one's ease at 
one's inn!" These eventful moments in 
our lives' history are too precious, too 
full of solid, heartfelt happiness to be 
frittered and dribbled away in imperfect 
sympathy. I would have them all to 
myself, and drain them to the last drop: 
they will do to talk of or to write about 
afterwards. What a dehcate specula- [230 
tion it is, after drinking whole goblets 
of tea— 

"The cups that cheer, but not inebriate " — 

and letting the fumes ascend into the 
brain, to sit considering what we shall 
have for supper — eggs and a rasher, a 
rabbit smothered in onions, or an excel- 
lent veal cutlet! Saricho in such a situa- 
tion once fixed on cow-heel; and his choice, 
though he could not help it, is not to [240 
be disparaged. Then, in the intervals of 
pictured scenery and Shandean contem- 
plation, to catch the preparation and the 
stir in the kitchen. Procul, procul 
este prof an a These hours are sacred to 
silence and to musing, to be treasured 
up in the memory, and to feed the source 
of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would 
not waste them in idle talk; or if I must 
have the integrity of fancy broken [250 
in upon, I would rather it were by a 
stranger than a friend. A stranger takes 
his hue and character from the time 
and place; he is a part of the furniture and 
costume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or 



HAZLITT 



545 



from the West Riding of Yorkshire, so 
much the better. I do not even try to 
sympathise with him, and he breaks 
no squares. I associate nothing with my 
travelHng companion but present [260 
objects and passing events. In his ig- 
norance of me and my affairs, I in a man- 
ner forget myself. But a friend reminds 
one of other things, rips up old grievances, 
and destroys the abstraction of the scene. 
He comes in ungraciously between us 
and our imaginary character. Something 
is dropped in the course of conversation 
that gives a hint of your profession and 
pursuits; or from having some one [270 
with you that knows the less sublime por- 
tions of your history, it seems that other 
people do. You are no longer a citizen of 
the world; but your "unhoused free con- 
dition is put into circumspection and 
confine." The incognito of an inn is one 
of its striking privileges — "lord of one's 
self, uncumbered with a name." Oh! it 
is great to shake off the trammels of the 
world and of public opinion — to lose [280 
our importunate, tormenting, everlasting 
personal identity in the elements of na- 
ture, and become the creature of the 
moment, clear of all ties — to hold to the 
universe only by a dish of sweetbreads, 
and to owe nothing but the score of the 
evening — and no longer seeking for ap- 
plause and meeting with contempt, to be 
known by no other title than the Gentle- 
man in the parlor! One may take [290 
one's choice of all characters in this ro- 
mantic state of uncertainty as to one's 
real pretensions, and become indefinitely 
respectable and negatively right wor- 
shipful. We bafiie prejudice and disap- 
point conjecture; and from being so to 
others, begin to be objects of curiosity 
and wonder even to ourselves. We are 
no more those hackneyed common-places 
that we appear in the world; an inn [300 
restores us to the level of nature, and 
quits scores with society ! I have certainly 
spent some enviable hours at inns — 
sometimes when I have been left entirely 
to myself, and have tried to soh^e some 
metaphysical problem, as once at Witham 
Common, where I found out the proof 
that likeness is not a case of the associa- 
tion of ideas — at other times, when there 



have been pictures in the room, as at [310 
St. Neot's (I think it was,) where I first 
met with Gribelin's engravings of the 
Cartoons, into which I entered at once, 
and at a little inn on the borders of Wales, 
where there happened to be hanging some 
of Westall's drawings, which I com- 
pared triumphantly (for a theory that I 
had, not for the admired artist) with the 
figure of a girl who had ferried me over 
the Severn, standing up in a boat be- [320 
tween me and the twilight — at other 
times I might mention luxuriating in 
books, with a peculiar interest in this 
way, as I remember sitting up half the 
night to read Paul and Virginia, which I 
picked up at an inn at Bridgewater, after 
being drenched in the rain all day; and 
at the same place I got through two 
volumes of Madame d'Arblay's Cajnilla. 
It was on the loth of April, 1798, that [330 
I sat down to a volume of the New Eloise, 
at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of 
sherry and a cold chicken. The letter 
I chose was that in which St. Preux 
describes his feelings as he first caught a 
glimpse from the heights of the Jura of 
the Pays de Vaud, which I had brought 
with me as a bon houche to crown the 
evening with. It was my birthday, and 
I had for the first time come from a [340 
place in the neighborhood to visit this 
delightful spot. The road to Llangollen 
turns off between Chirk and Wrexham; 
and on passing a certain point you come 
all at once upon the valley, which opens 
like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills 
rising in majestic state on either side, 
with "green upland swells that echo to 
the bleat of flocks" below, and the river 
Dee babbling over its stony bed in [350 
the midst of them. The valley at this 
time " glittered green with sunny showers," 
and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender 
branches in the chiding stream. How 
proud, how glad I was to walk along the 
high road that overlooks the delicious 
prospect, repeating the lines which I 
have just quoted from Mr. Coleridge's 
poems! But besides the prospect which 
opened beneath my feet, another [360 
also opened to my inward sight, a heav- 
enly vision, on which were written, in 
letters large as Hope could make them, 



540 



IJtlJ^ ALrH UP K.UlVlJil\ 1 lL.i:iM 



these four words, Liberty, Genius, 
Love, Virtue; which have since faded 
into the light of common day^ or mock 
my idle gaze. 

" The beautiful is vanished, and returns 
not." 

Still I would return some time or other 
to this enchanted spot; but I would [370 
return to it alone. What other self could 
I find to share that influx of thoughts, 
of regret, and delight, the fragments of 
which I could hardly conjure up to my- 
self, so much have they been broken and 
defaced. I could stand on some tall rock, 
and overlook the precipice of years that 
separates me from what I then was. I 
was at that time going shortly to visit the 
poet whom I have above named. [380 
Where is he now? Not only I myself 
have changed; the world, which w^as then 
new to me, has become old and incor- 
rigible. Yet will I turn to thee in thought, 
O sylvan Dee, in joy, in youth and glad- 
ness as thou then wert; and thou shalt 
always be to me the river of Paradise, 
where I will drink of the waters of life 
freely ! 

There is hardly anything that shows [390 
the shortsightedness or capriciousness 
of the imagination more than travelUng 
does. With change of place we change 
our ideas; nay, our opinions and feelings. 
We can by an effort indeed transport 
ourselves to old and long- forgotten scenes, 
and then the picture of the mind revives 
again; but we forget those that we have 
just left. It seems that we can think but 
of one place at a time. The canvas [400 
of the fancy is but of a certain extent, 
and if we paint one set of objects upon 
it, they immediately eft'ace every other. 
We cannot .enlarge our conceptions, we 
only shift our point of view. The land- 
scape bares its bosom to the enraptured 
eye, we take our fill of it, and seem as 
if we could form no other image of beauty 
or grandeur. We pass on, and think no 
more of it: the horizon that shuts it [410 
from our sight also blots it from our 
memory like a dream. In travelling 
through a wild barren country I can form 
no idea of a woody and cultivated one. 
It appears to me that all the world must 



be barren, like what I see of it. In the 
country we forget the town, and in town 
we despise the country. "Beyond Hyde 
Park," says Sir Fopling Flutter, "all is 
a desert." All that part of the map [420 
that we do not see before us is blank. 
The world in our conceit of it is not mucli 
bigger than a nutshell. It is not one 
prospect expanded into another, county 
joined to county, kingdom to kingdom, 
land to seas, making an image volumi- 
nous and vast; — the mind can form no 
larger idea of space than the eye can take 
in at a single glance. The rest is a name 
written in a map, a calculation of [430 
arithmetic. For instance, what is the true 
signification of that immense mass of 
territory and population known by the 
name of China to us? An inch of paste- 
board on a wooden globe, of no more 
account than a China orange! Things 
near us are seen of the size of life: things 
at a distance are diminished to the size 
of the understanding. We measure the 
universe by ourselves, and even com- [440 
prehend the texture of our own being only 
piecemeal. In this way, however, we 
remember an infinity of things and places. 
The mind is like a mechanical instrument 
that plays a great variety of tunes, but 
it must play them in succession. One idea 
recalls another, but it at the same time 
excludes all others. In trying to renew 
old recollections, we cannot as it were 
unfold the whole web of our existence; [450 
we must pick out the single threads. So 
in coming to a place where we have 
formerly lived, and with which we have 
intimate associations, every one must 
have found that the feeling grows more 
vivid the nearer we approach the spot, 
from the mere anticipation of the actual 
impression: we remember circumstances, 
feelings, persons, faces, names that we 
had not thought of for years; but for [460 
the time all the rest of the world is for- 
gotten ! — To return to the question I have 
quitted above: — 

I have no objection to go to see ruins, 
aqueducts, pictures, in company with a 
friend or a party, but rather the contrary, 
for the former reason reversed. They 
are intelligible matters, and will bear 
talking about. The sentiment here is 



HAZLITT 



547 



not tacit, but communicable and [470 
overt. Salisbury Plain is barren of criti- 
cism, but Stonehenge will bear a discus- 
sion antiquarian, picturesque, and philo- 
sophical. In setting out on a party of 
pleasure, the first consideration always is 
where we shall go to: in taking a solitary 
ramble, the question is what we shall 
meet with by the way. "The mind is its 
own place"; nor are we anxious to arrive 
at the end of our journey. I can my- [480 
self do the honors indifferently well to 
works of art and curiosity. I once took 
a party to Oxford with no mean eclat — 
showed them that seat of the Muses at 
a distance, 

"With glistering spires and pinnacles 
adorned," 

descanted on the learned air that breathes 
from the grassy quadrangles and stone 
walls of halls and colleges — was at home 
in the Bodleian; and at Blenheim [490 
quite superseded the powdered Cicerone 
that attended us, and that pointed in 
vain with his wand to commonplace 
beauties in matchless pictures. As an- 
other exception to the above reasoning, 
I should not feel confident in venturing 
on a journey in a foreign country without 
a companion. I should want at intervals 
to hear the sound of my own language. 
There is an involuntary antipathy in [500 
the mind of an Englishman to foreign 
manners and notions that requires the 
assistance of social sympathy to carry it 
off. As the distance from home increases, 
this relief, which was at first a luxury, 
becomes a passion and an appetite. A 
person would almost feel stifled to find 
himself in the deserts of Arabia without 
friends and countrymen: there must be 
allowed to be something in the view [510 
of Athens or old Rome that claims the 
utterance of speech; and I own that the 
Pyramids are too mighty for any single 
contemplation. In such situations, so 
opposite to all one's ordinary- train of 
ideas, one seems a species by one's-self, a 
limb torn off from society, unless one 
can meet with instant fellowship and 
support. Yet I did not feel this want or 
craving very pressing once, when I [520 
first set my foot on the laughing shores 



of France. Calais was peopled with 
novelty and delight. The confused, busy 
murmur of the place was like oil and wine 
poured into my ears ; nor did the mariners' 
hymn, which was sung from the top of an 
old crazy vessel in the harbor, as the sun 
went down, send an alien sound into 
my soul. I only breathed the air of 
general humanity. I walked over [530 
"the vine-covered hills and gay regions of 
France," erect and satisfied; for the 
image of man was not cast down and 
chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones. 
I was at no loss for language, for that of 
all the great schools of painting was open 
to me. The whole is vanished like a 
shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedom, 
all are fled: nothing remains but the 
Bourbons and the French people! — [540 
There is undoubtedly a sensation in travel- 
ling into foreign parts that is to be had 
nowhere else; but it is more pleasing at the 
time than lasting. It is too remote from 
our habitual associations to be a common 
topic of discourse or reference, and, like 
a dream or another state of existence, 
does not piece into our daily modes of life. 
It is an animated but a momentary hal- 
lucination. It demands an effort to [550 
exchange our actual for our ideal identity ; 
and to feel the pulse of our old transports 
revive very keenly, we must "jump" all 
our present comforts and connections. 
Our romantic and itinerant character is 
not to be domesticated. Dr. Johnson 
remarked how little foreign travel added 
to the facilities of conversation in those 
who had been abroad. In fact, the time 
we have spent there is both delightful, [560 
and in one sense instructive; but it ap- 
pears to be cut out of our substantial, 
downright existence, and never to join 
kindly on to it. We are not the same, but 
another, and perhaps more enviable 
indi\ddual, all the time we are out of our 
own country. We are lost to ourselves, 
as well as our friends. So the poet some- 
what quaintly sings: 

" Out of my country and myself I go." [570 

Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, 
do well to absent themselves for a while 
from the ties and objects that recall them; 
but we can be said onlv to fulfil our des- 



54« 



THIL ALrJtL Ut KUMAl\llLi:^M 



tiny in the place that gave us birth. I 
should on this account like well enough 
to spend the whole of my life in travelling 
abroad, if I could anywhere borrow 
another life to spend afterwards at 
home! 



ON FAMILIAR STYLE 

It is not easy to write a familiar 
style. Many people mistake a familiar 
for a vulgar style, and suppose that 
to write without affectation is to write 
at random. On the contrary, there 
is nothing that requires more precision, 
and, if I may so say, purity of ex- 
pression, than the style I am speak- 
ing of. It utterly rejects not only all 
unmeaning pomp, but all low, cant [lo 
phrases, and loose, unconnected, slip- 
shod allusions. It is not to take 
the first word that offers, but the 
best word in common use; it is not 
to throw words together in any com- 
binations we please, but to follow and 
avail ourselves of the true idiom of the 
language. To write a genuine familiar or 
truly English style is to write as any one 
would speak in common conversation [20 
who had a thorough command and choice 
of words, or who could discourse with 
ease, force, and perspicuity, setting aside 
all pedantic and oratorical flourishes. 
Or, to give another illustration, to write 
naturally is the same thing in regard to 
common conversation as to read naturally 
is in regard to common speech. It does 
not follow that it is an easy thing to give 
the true accent and inflection to the [30 
words you utter, because you do not 
attempt to rise above the level of ordinary 
life and colloquial speaking. You do not 
assume, indeed, the solemnity of the 
pulpit, or the tone of stage-declamation; 
neither are you at liberty to gabble on at 
a venture, without emphasis or discre- 
tion, or to resort to vulgar dialect or 
clownish pronunciation. You must steer 
a middle course. You are tied down [40 
to a given and appropriate articulation, 
which is determined by the habitual as- 
sociations between sense and sound, and 
which you can only hit by entering into 



the author's meaning, as you must find 
the proper words and style to express 
yourself by fixing your thoughts on the 
subject you have to write about. Any 
one may mouth out a passage with a 
theatrical cadence, or get upon stilts [50 
to tell his thoughts; but to write or speak 
with propriety and simplicity is a more 
difficult task. Thus it is easy to affect a 
pompous style, to use a word twice as 
big as the thing you want to express: it 
is not so easy to pitch upon the very word 
that exactly fits it. Out of eight or ten 
words equally common, equally intelli- 
gible, with nearly equal pretensions, it 
is a matter of some nicety and dis- [60 
crimination to pick out the very one the 
preferableness of which is scarcely per- 
ceptible, but decisive. The reason why 
I object to Dr. Johnson's style is that 
there is no discrimination, no selection, 
no variety in it. He uses none but "taU, 
opaque words," taken from the "first 
row of the rubric;" — words with the 
greatest number of syllables, or Latin 
phrases with merely English termina- [70 
tions. If a fine style depended on this 
sort of arbitrary pretension, it would be 
fair to judge of an author's elegance by 
the measurement of his words, and the 
substitution of foreign circumlocutions 
(with no precise associations) for the 
mother- tongue.^ How simple it is to be 
dignified without ease, to be pompous 
without meaning! Surely, it is but 
a mechanical rule for avoiding what [80 
is low, to be always pedantic and 
affected. It is clear you cannot use 
a vulgar English word if you never 
use a common English word at all. A 
fine tact is shown in adhering to those 
which are perfectly common, and yet 
never faUing into any expressions which 
are debased by disgusting circumstances, 
or which owe their signification and 
point to technical or professional [90 
allusions. A truly natural or familiar 
style can never be quaint or vulgar, for 
this reason, that it is of universal force 
and applicability, and that quaintness 

1 1 have heard of such a thing as an author who makes it 
a rule never to admit a monosyllable into his vapid verse. 
Yet the charm and sweetness of Marlowe's lines depended 
often on their being made up almost entirely of monosyllables. 

[Hazlitt.l 



HAZLITT 



549 



and vulgarity arise out of the immediate 
connection of certain words with coarse 
and disagreeable or with confined ideas. 
The last form what we understand by 
cant or slang phrases. — To give an exam- 
ple of what is not very clear in the [loo 
general statement. I should say that 
the phrase To cut with a knife, or To cut 
a piece of wood, is perfectly free from 
vulgarity, because it is perfectly com- 
mon; but To cut an acquaintance is not 
quite unexceptionable, because it is not 
perfectly common or intelligible, and 
has hardly yet escaped out of the limits 
of slang phraseology. I should hardly, 
therefore, use the word in this [no 
sense without putting it in italics as a 
license of expression, to be received cum 
grano salts. All provincial or bye-phrases 
come under the same mark of reproba- 
tion — all such as the writer transfers to 
the page from his fireside or a particular 
coterie, or that he invents for his own 
sole use and convenience. I conceive that 
words are like money, not the worse for 
being common, but that it is the stamp [120 
of custom alone that gives them circula- 
tion or value. I am fastidious in this 
respect, and would almost as soon coin 
the currency of the realm as counterfeit 
the King's English. I never invented or 
gave a new and unauthorised meaning 
to any word but one single one (the 
term impersonal applied to feelings), and 
that was in an abstruse metaphysical dis- 
cussion to express a very difficult dis- [130 
tinction. I have been (I know) loudly ac- 
cused of revelling in vulgarisms and broken 
English. I cannot speak to that point; but 
so far I plead guilty to the determined 
use of acknowledged idioms and common 
elliptical expressions. I am not sure that 
the critics in question know the one from 
the other, that is, can distinguish any 
medium between formal pedantry and 
the most barbarous solecism. As an [140 
author I endeavor to employ plain words 
and popular modes of construction, as, 
were I a chapman and dealer, I should 
common weights and measures. 

The proper force of words lies not in the 
words themselves, but in their applica- 
tion. A word may be a fine-sounding 
word, of an unusual length, and very im- 



posing from its learning and novelty, and 
yet in the connection in which it is [150 
introduced may be quite pointless and 
irrelevant. It is not pomp or pretension, 
but the adaptation of the expression to 
the idea, that clenches a writer's mean- 
ing: — as it is not the size or glossiness of 
the materials, but their being fitted each 
to its place, that gives strength to the 
arch ; or as the pegs and nails are as neces- 
sary to the support of the building as 
the larger timbers, and more so than [160 
the mere showy, unsubstantial ornaments. 
I hate anything that occupies more space 
than it is worth. I hate to see a load of 
bandboxes go along the street, and I hate 
to see a parcel of big words without any- 
thing in them. A person who does not 
deliberately dispose of all his thoughts 
alike in cumbrous draperies and flimsy dis- 
guises may strike out twenty varieties 
of familiar everyday language, each [170 
coming somewhat nearer to the feeling he 
wants to convey, and at last not hit upon 
that particular and only one which may 
be said to be identical with the exact 
impression in his mind. This would seem 
to show that Mr. Cobbett is hardly right 
in saying that the first word that occurs 
is always the best. It may be a very 
good one; and yet a better may present it- 
self on reflection or from time to time. [180 
It should be suggested naturally, however, 
and spontaneously, from a fresh and lively 
conception of the subject. We seldom 
succeed by trying at improvement, or by 
merely substituting one word for another 
that we are not satisfied with, as we can- 
not recollect the name of a place or person 
by merely plaguing ourselves about it. 
We wander farther from the point by 
persisting in a wrong scent; but it [190 
starts up accidentally in the memory 
when we least expected it, by touching 
some link in the chain of previous asso- 
ciation. 

There are those who hoard up and make 
a cautious display of nothing but rich and 
rare phraseology; — ancient medals, ob- 
scure coins, and Spanish pieces of eight. 
They are very curious to inspect; but I 
myself would neither offer nor take [200 
them in the course of exchange. A 
sprinkling of archaisms is not amiss; but 



1.x x-i j^\jA^ Kji. j.\.\.yiyx xiiy J. i\^i lJIVI 



a tissue of obsolete expressions is more 
fit for keep than wear. I do not say I would 
not use any phrase that had been brought 
into fashion before the middle or the end 
of the last century; but I should be shy of 
using any that had not been employed by 
any approved author during the whole of 
that time. Words, like clothes, get [210 
old-fashioned, or mean and ridiculous, 
when they have been for some time laid 
aside. Mr. Lamb is the only imitator of 
old English style I can read with pleasure ; 
and he is so thoroughly imbued with the 
spirit of his authors that the idea of imi- 
tation is almost done away. There is an 
inward unction, a marrowy vein both in 
the thought and feeling, an intuition, deep 
and lively, of his subject, that carries [220 
ofif any quaintness or awkwardness arising 
from an antiquated style and dress. The 
matter is completely his own, though the 
manner is assumed. Perhaps his ideas are 
altogether so marked and individual as 
to require their point and pungency to be 
neutralised by the affectation of a sin- 
gular but traditional form of conveyance. 
Tricked out in the prevailing costume, 
they would probably seem more [230 
startling and out of the way. The old 
English authors, Burton, Fuller, Coryate, 
Sir Thomas Browne, are a kind of media- 
tors between us and the more eccentric 
and whimsical modern, reconciling us to 
his peculiarities. I do not, however, know 
how far this is the case or not, till he con- 
descends to write like one of us. I must 
confess that what I like best of his papers 
under the signature of Elia (still I [240 
do not presume, amidst such excellence, 
to decide what is most excellent) is the 
account of "Mrs. Battle's Opinions on 
Whist," which is also the most free from 
obsolete allusions and turns of expres- 
sion — 

"A well of native English undefiled." 

To those acquainted with his admired pro- 
totypes, these Essays of the ingenious and 
highly gifted author have the same [250 
sort of charm and relish that Erasmus's 
Colloquies or a fine piece of modern Latin 
have to the classical scholar. Certainly, 
I do not know any borrowed pencil that 
has more power or felicity of execution 



than the one of which I have here been 
speaking. 

It is as easy to write a gaudy style 
without ideas as it is to spread a pallet of 
showy colors or to smear in a flaunt- [260 
ing transparency. "What do you read?" 
"Words, words, words."— "What is the 
matter?" "Nothing," it might be an- 
swered. The florid style is the reverse of 
the familiar. The last is employed as 
an unvarnished medium to convey ideas; 
the first is resorted to as a spangled veil 
to conceal the want of them. When there 
is nothing to be set down but words, it 
costs little to have them fine. Look [270 
through the dictionary, and cull out a 
florilegium, rival the tulippomania. Rouge 
high enough, and never mind the natural 
complexion. The vulgar, who are not 
in the secret, will admire the look of pre- 
ternatural health and vigor; and the fash- 
ionable, who regard only appearances, 
will be delighted with the imposition. 
Keep to your sounding generalities, your 
tinkling phrases, and all will be well. [280 
Swell out an unmeaning truism to a 
perfect tympany of style. A thought, a 
distinction, is the rock on which all this 
brittle cargo of verbiage splits at once. 
Such writers have merely verbal imagina- 
tions, that retain nothing but words. 
Or their puny thoughts have dragon- wings 
all green and gold. They soar far above 
the vulgar failing of the sermo hunii 
obrepens — their most ordinary speech [290 
is never short of an hyperbole, splendid, 
imposing, vague, incomprehensible, mag- 
niloquent, a cento of sounding common- 
places. If some of us, whose "ambition 
is more lowly," pry a little too narrowly 
into nooks and corners to pick up a num- 
ber of "unconsidered trifles," they never 
once direct their eyes or lift their hands 
to seize on any but the most gorgeous, 
tarnished, threadbare, patchwork set [300 
of phrases, the left-off finery of poetic 
extravagance, transmitted down through 
successive generations of barren pre- 
tenders. If they criticise actors and ac- 
tresses, a huddled phantasmagoria of 
feathers, spangles, floods of light, and 
oceans of sound float before their morbid 
sense, which they paint in the style of 
Ancient Pistol. Not a glimpse can you 



HAZLITT 



551 



get of the merits or defects of the per- [310 
formers: they are hidden in a profusion 
of barbarous epithets and wilful rhodo- 
montade. Our hypercritics are not think- 
ing of these little fantoccini beings — 

"That strut and fret their hour upon 
the stage" — 

but of tall phantoms of words, abstrac- 
tions, genera and species, sweeping clauses, 
periods that unite the Poles, forced al- 
literations, astounding antitheses — [319 

"And on their pens Fustian sits plumed." 

If they describe kings and queens, it is 
an Eastern pageant. The Coronation at 
either House is nothing to it. We get at 
four repeated images — a curtain, a throne, 
a sceptre, and a foot-stool. These are 
with them the wardrobe of a lofty imagina- 
tion; and they turn their servile strains 
to servile uses. Do we read a description 
of pictures? It is not a reflection of tones 
and hues which "nature's own sweet [330 
and cunning hand laid on," but piles of 
precious stones, rubies, pearls, emeralds, 
Golconda's mines, and all the blazonry 
of art. Such persons are in fact besotted 
with words, and their brains are turned 
with the glittering but empty and sterile 
phantoms of things. Personifications, 
capital letters, seas of sunbeams, visions 
of glory, shining inscriptions, the figures 
of a transparency, Britannia with her [340 
shield, or Hope leaning on an anchor, 
make up their stock in trade. They may 
be considered as hieroglyphical writers. 
Images stand out in their minds isolated 
and important merely in themselves, 
without any groundwork of feeling — there 
is no context in their imaginations. Words 
affect them in the same way, by the mere 
sound, that is, by their possible, not by 
their actual application to the subject [350 
in hand. They are fascinated by first 
appearances, and have no sense of con- 
sequences. Nothing more is meant by 
them than meets the ear: they under- 
stand or feel nothing more than meets 
their eye. The web and texture of the 
universe, and of the heart of man, is 
a mystery to them: they have no faculty 
that strikes a chord in unison with it. 
They cannot get beyond the daubings [360 



I of fancy, the varnish of sentiment. Objects 
j are not linked to feelings, words to things, 
but images revolve in splendid mockery, 
words represent themselves in their 
strange rhapsodies. The categories of 
such a mind are pride and ignorance — 
pride in outside show, to which they sacri- 
fice everything, and ignorance of the true 
worth and hidden structure both of words 
and things. With a sovereign con- [370 
tempt for what is familiar and natural, 
they are the slaves of vulgar affectation — 
of a routine of high-flown phrases. Scorn- 
ing to imitate realities, they are unable 
to invent anything, to strike out one 
original idea. They are not copyists of 
nature, it is true; but they are the poorest 
of all plagiarists, the plagiarists of words. 
All is far-fetched, dear-bought, artificial, 
oriental in subject and allusion; [380 
all is mechanical, conventional, vapid, 
formal, pedantic in style and execution. 
They startle and confound the under- 
standing of the reader by the remoteness 
and obscurity of their illustrations; they 
soothe the ear by the monotony of the 
same everlasting round of circuitous 
metaphors. They are the mock-school in 
poetry and prose. They flounder about be- 
tween fustian in expression and bathos [390 
in sentiment. They tantalise the fancy, 
but never reach the head nor touch the 
heart. Their Temple of Fame is hke a 
shadowy structure raised by Dulness to 
Vanity, or like Cowper's description of 
the Empress of Russia's palace of ice, 
"as worthless as in show 'twas glitter- 
ing"— 

"It smiled, and it was cold!" 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY (1785-1859) 

From CONFESSIONS OF AN ENG- 
LISH OPIUM-EATER 

I have often been asked how I came to 
be a regular opium eater; and have suf- 
fered, very unjustly, in the opinion of 
my acquaintance, from being reputed to 
have brought upon myself all the suft'er- 
ings which I shall have to record, by a 
long course of indulgence in this practice 
purely for the sake of creating an artificial 



S52 



1 an, /iLriL wr jxuivin.1^ i ly^ioivi 



State of pleasurable excitement. This, 
however, is a misrepresentation of [lo 
my case. True it is, that for nearly ten 
years I did occasionally take opium for 
the sake of the exquisite pleasure it gave 
me: but, so long as I took it with this 
view', I was effectually protected from 
all material bad consequences, by the 
necessity of interposing long intervals 
between the several acts of indulgence, 
in order to renew the pleasurable sensa- 
tions. It was not for the purpose of [20 
creating pleasure, but of mitigating pain 
in the severest degree, that I first began 
to use opium as an article of daily diet. 
In the twenty-eighth year of my age, 
a most painful affection of the stomach, 
which I had first experienced about ten 
years before, attacked me in great strength. 
This affection had originally been caused 
by extremities of hunger, suffered in my 
boyish days. During the season of [30 
hope and redundant happiness which 
succeeded (that is, from eighteen to 
twenty-four) it had slumbered; for the 
three following years it had revived at 
intervals; and now, under unfavorable 
circumstances, from depression of spirits, 
it attacked me wdth a violence that yielded 
to no remedies but opium. As the youth- 
ful sufferings, which first produced this 
derangement of the stomach, were in- [40 
teresting in themselves, and in the cir- 
cumstances that attended them, I shall 
here briefly retrace them. 

My father died when I was about seven 
years old, and left me to the care of four 
guardians. I was sent to various schools, 
great and small; and was very early dis- 
tinguished for my classical attainments, 
especially for my knowledge of Greek. 
At thirteen I wrote Greek with ease; [50 
and at fifteen my command of that lan- 
guage was so great, that I not only com- 
posed Greek verses in lyric meters, but 
could converse in Greek fluently and 
without embarrassment — an accomplish- 
ment which I have not since met with in 
any scholar of my times, and which, in 
my case, was owing to the practice of 
daily reading off the newspapers into the 
best Greek I could furnish extempore; [60 
for the necessity of ransacking my memory 
and invention, for all sorts and combina- 



tions of periphrastic expressions, as equiva- 
lents for modern ideas, images, relations 
of things, etc., gave me a compass of dic- 
tion which would never have been called 
out by a dull translation of moral essays, 
etc. "That boy," said one of my masters, 
pointing the attention of a stranger 
to me, "that boy could harangue [70 
an Athenian mob, better than you and 
I could address an EngHsh one." He 
who honored me with this eulogy was a 
scholar, "and a ripe and good one;" and 
of all my tutors, was the only one whom 
I loved or reverenced. Unfortunately 
for me (and, as I afterwards learned, to 
this worthy man's great indignation) I was 
transferred to the care, first of a block- 
head, who was in a perpetual panic [80 
lest I should expose his ignorance; and 
finally, to that of a respectable scholar, 
at the head of a great school on an ancient 
foundation. This man had been appointed 

to his situation by College, Oxford; 

and was a sound, well-built scholar, but 
like most men whom I have known 
from that college, coarse, clumsy, and 
inelegant. A miserable contrast he pre- 
sented, in my eyes, to the Etonian bril- [90 
liancy of my favorite master; and be- 
sides, he could not disguise from my 
hourly notice, the poverty and meager- 
ness of his understanding. It is a bad 
thing for a boy to be, and to know himself, 
far beyond his tutors, whether in knowl- 
edge or in power of mind. This was the 
case, so far as regarded knowledge at least, 
not with myself only; for the two boys 
who jointly with myself composed [100 
the first form were better Grecians than 
the head-master, though not more ele- 
gant scholars, nor at all more accustomed 
to sacrifice to the graces. When I first 
entered, I remember that we read Soph- 
ocles; and it was a constant matter of 
triumph to us, the learned triumvirate 
of the first form, to see our "Archididas- 
calus," as he loved to be called, conning 
our lessons before we went up, and [no 
laying a regular train, with lexicon and 
grammar, for blowing up and blasting, as 
it were, any difficulties he found in the 
choruses; whilst we never condescended 
to open our books until the moment of 
going up, and were generally employed 



DE QUINCEY 



553 



in writing epigrams upon his wig, or some 
such important -matter. My two class- 
fellows were poor, and dependent for 
their future prospects at the univer- [120 
sity on the recommendation of the head- 
master; but I, who had a small patri- 
monial property, the income of which 
was sufficient to support me at college, 
wished to be sent thither immediately. 
I made earnest representations on the 
subject to my guardians, but all to no 
purpose. One, who was more reasonable, 
and had more knowledge of the world 
than the rest, lived at a distance; two [130 
of the other three resigned all their au- 
thority into the hands of the fourth; 
and this fourth with whom I had to ne- 
gotiate, was a worthy man, in his way, 
but haughty, obstinate, and intolerant 
of all opposition to his will. After a 
certain number of letters and personal 
inter\dews, I found that I had nothing to 
hope for, not even a compromise of the 
matter, from my guardian; uncondi- [140 
tional submission was what he demanded ; 
and I prepared myself, therefore, for other 
measures. Summer • was now coming 
on with hasty steps, and my seventeenth 
birthday was fast approaching; after 
which day I had sworn within myself that 
I would no longer be numbered amongst 
school-boys. Money being what I chiefly 
wanted, I wrote to a woman of high rank, 
who, though young herself, had known [150 
me from a child, and had latterly treated 
me with great distinction, requesting 
that she would "lend" me five guineas. 
For upwards of a week no answer 
came; and I was beginning to despond, 
when, at length, a servant put into my 
hands a double letter, with a coronet on 
the seal. The letter w^as kind and oblig- 
ing: the fair writer was on the sea-coast, 
and in that way the delay had arisen; [160 
she enclosed double of what I had asked, 
and good-naturedly hinted that if I 
should never repay her, it would not 
absolutely ruin her. Now then, I was 
prepared for my scheme; ten guineas, 
added to about two which I had remain- 
ing from my pocket money, seemed to 
me sufiicient for an indefinite length of 
time; and at that happy age, if no def- 
inite boundary can be assigned to [170 



one's power, the spirit of hope and pleas- 
ure makes it virtually infinite. 

It is a just remark of Dr. Johnson's, 
and, what cannot often be said of his re- 
marks, it is a very feeling one, that we 
never do anything consciously for the 
last time — of things, that is, which we 
have long been in the habit of doing — 
without sadness of heart. This truth I 

felt deeply, when I came to leave , [180 

a place which I did not love, and where 
I had not been happy. On the evening 

before I left forever, I grieved when 

the ancient and lofty school-room re- 
sounded with the evening service, per- 
formed for the last time in my hearing, 
and at night, when the muster-roll of 
names was called over, and mine, as 
usual, was called first, I stepped forward, 
and, passing the head- master, who [190 
was standing by, I bowed to him, and 
looked earnestly in his face, thinking to 
myself, "He is old and infirm, and in 
this world I shall not see him again." I 
was right: I never did see him again, nor 
ever shall. He looked at me compla- 
cently, smiled good-naturedly, returned 
my salutation, or rather, my valediction, 
and we parted, though he knew it not, 
forever. I could not reverence him [200 
intellectually; but he had been uniformly 
kind to me, and had allowed me many 
indulgences; and I grieved at the thought 
of the mortification I should inflict upon 
him. 

The morning came which was to launch 
me into the world, and from which my 
whole succeeding life has, in many im- 
portant points, taken its coloring. I 
lodged in the head-master's house, and [210 
had been allowed, from my first entrance, 
the indulgence of a private room, which 
I used both as a sleeping room and a 
study. At half after three I rose, and 
gazed mth deep emotion at the ancient 

towers of , "dressed in earliest light," 

and beginning to crimson with the radiant 
luster of a cloudless July morning. I 
was firm and immovable in my purpose; 
but yet agitated by anticipation of [220 
uncertain danger and troubles; and, if I 
could have foreseen the hurricane and 
perfect hail-storm of affliction which 
soon fell upon me, well might I have 



5i^ 



± ±±±lt XX\^J-Li \J± 



±\^ Ji Kjl¥± 



been agitated. To this agitation the deep 
peace of the morning presented an af- 
fecting contrast, and in some degree a 
medicine. The silence was more pro- 
found than that of midnight; and to me 
the silence of a summer morning is [230 
more touching than all other silence, 
because, the light being broad and strong, 
as that of noon-day at other seasons of 
the year, it seems to differ from perfect 
day chiefly because man is not yet abroad; 
and thus, the peace of nature, and of the 
innocent creatures of God, seems to be 
secure and deep only so long as the 
presence of man, and his restless and 
unquiet spirit, are not there to trouble [240 
its sanctity. I dressed myself, took my 
hat and gloves, and lingered a little in 
the room. For the last year and a half 
this room had been my "pensive citadel;" 
here I had read and studied through all 
the hours of night; and though true it 
was that for the latter part of this time 
I, who was framed for love and gentle 
affections, had lost my gaiety and hap- 
piness, during the strife and fever of [250 
contention with my guardian; yet, on 
the other hand, as a boy so passionately 
fond of books, and dedicated to intel- 
lectual pursuits, I could not fail to have 
enjoyed many happy hours in the midst 
of general dejection. I wept as I looked 
round on the chair, hearth, writing-table, 
and other familiar objects, knowing too 
certainly that I looked upon them for 
the last time. Whilst I write this, it [260 
is eighteen years ago; and yet, at this 
moment, I see distinctly, as if it were 
yesterday, the lineaments and expression 
of the object on which I fixed my parting 

gaze; it was a picture of the lovely , 

which hung over the mantelpiece; the 
eyes and mouth of which were so beauti- 
ful, and the whole countenance so radiant 
with benignity and divine tranquillity, 
that I had a thousand times laid down [270 
my pen, or my book, to gather consola- 
tion from it, as a devotee from his patron 
saint. Whilst I was yet gazing upon it, 

the deep tones of clock proclaimed 

that it was four o'clock. I went up to 
the picture, kissed it, and then gently 
walked out, and closed the door for ever! 



If any man, poor or rich, were to say 
that he would tell us what had been the 
happiest day in his life, and the why [280 
and the wherefore, I suppose that we 
should all cry out — Hear him! hear him! 
As to the happiest day, that must be very 
difficult for any wise man to name; be- 
cause any event that could occupy so 
distinguished a place in a man's ret- 
rospect of his life, or be entitled to have 
shed a special felicity on any one day, 
ought to be of such an enduring character 
as that, accidents apart, it should [29c 
have continued to shed the same felicity, 
or one not distinguishably less, on many 
years together. To the happiest lustrum, 
however, or even to the happiest year, it 
may be allowed to any man to point 
without discountenance from wisdom. 
This year, in my case, reader, was the 
one which we have now reached; though 
it stood, I confess, as a parenthesis be- 
tween years of a gloomier character. [300 
It was a year of brilliant water, to speak 
after the manner of jewelers, set as it 
were, and insulated, in the gloom and 
cloudy melancholy of opium. Strange 
as it may sound, I had a little before this 
time descended suddenly, and without 
any considerable effort, from 320 grains 
of opium (/. e., eight ^ thousand drops of 
laudanum) per day to forty grains, or 
one-eighth part. Instantaneously, [310 
and as if by magic, the cloud of profound- 
est melancholy which rested upon my 
brain, like some black vapors that I have 
seen roll away from the summits of moun- 
tains, drew off in one day {wxOrii^^pov), 
passed off with its murky banners as 
simultaneously as a ship that has been 
stranded, and is floated off by a spring 
tide— 

"That moveth altogether, if it move at 
all." [3^0 

Now, then, I was again happy; I now 
took only 1,000 drops of laudanum per 

1 1 here reckon twenty-five drops of laudanum as equiva- 
lent to one grain of opium, which, I believe, is the common 
estimate. However, as both may be considered variable 
quantities (the crude opium varying much in strength, and 
the tincture still more), I suppose that no infinitesimal ac- 
curacy can be had in such a calculation. Teaspoons vary as 
much in size as opium in strength. Small ones hold about 
100 drops; so that 8,000 drops are about eighty times a tea- 
spoonful. The reader sees how much I kept within Dr. 
Buchan's indulgent allowance. (De Quincey.] 



DE QUINCEY 



555 



day; and what was that? A latter spring 
had come to close up the season of youth ; 
my brain performed its functions as 
healthily as ever before; I read Kant 
again, and again I understood him, or 
fancied that I did. Again my feelings of 
pleasure expanded themselves to all 
around me; and if any man from Ox- [330 
ford or Cambridge, or from neither, had 
been announced to me in my unpretend- 
ing cottage, I should have welcomed him 
with as sumptuous a reception as so poor 
a man could offer. Whatever else was 
wanting to a wise man's happiness, — of 
laudanum I would have given him' as 
much as he wished, and in a golden cup. 
And, by the way, now that I speak of 
giving laudanum away, I remember, [340 
about this time, a little incident, which 
I mention, because, trifling as it was, 
the reader will soon meet it again in my 
dreams, which it influenced more fear- 
fully than could be imagined. One day 
a Malay knocked at my door. What 
business a Malay could have to transact 
amongst English mountains, I cannot 
conjecture; but possibly he was on his 
road to a seaport about forty miles [350 
distant. 

The servant who opened the door to 
him was a young girl born and bred 
amongst the mountains, who had never 
seen an Asiatic dress of any sort; his tur- 
ban, therefore, confounded her not a 
little; and, as it turned out, that his at- 
tainments in English were exactly of the 
same extent as hers in the Malay, there 
seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed [360 
between all communication of ideas, if 
either party had happened to possess 
any. In this dilemma, the girl, recollect- 
ing the reputed learning of her master, 
and doubtless giving me credit for a 
knowledge of all the languages of the 
earth, besides, perhaps, a few of the lunar 
ones, came and gave me to understand 
that there was a sort of demon below, 
whom she clearly imagined that my [370 
art £Ould exorcise from the house. I did 
not immediately go do^\^l; but, when I 
did, the group which presented itself, 
arranged as it was by accident, though 
not very elaborate, took hold of my fancy 
and my eye in a way that none of the 



statuesque attitudes exhibited in the 
ballets at the Opera House, though so 
ostentatiously complex, had ever done. 
In a cottage kitchen, but panelled [380 
on the wall with dark wood that from 
age and rubbing resembled oak, and 
looking more like a rustic hall of entrance 
than a kitchen, stood the Malay — his 
turban and loose trousers of dingy white 
relieved upon the dark panelling; he had 
placed himself nearer to the girl than she 
seemed to relish; though her native spirit 
of mountain intrepidity contended with 
the feeling of simple awe which her [390 
countenance expressed as she gazed upon 
the tiger-cat before her. And a more 
striking picture there could not be imag- 
ined, than the beautiful English face of 
I the girl, and its exquisite fairness, together 
I with her erect and independent attitude, 
contrasted with the sallow and bilious 
j skin of the Malay, enamelled or veneered 
mth mahogany by marine air, his small, 
fierce, restless eyes, thin lips, slavish [400 
gestures, and adorations. Half-hidden by 
i the ferocious-looking Malay, was a little 
j child from a neighboring cottage who 
j had crept in after him, and was now in 
I the act of reverting its head, and gazing 
upwards at the turban, and the fiery eyes 
beneath it, whilst with one hand he 
caught at the dress of the young woman 
for protection. My knowledge of the 
Oriental tongues is not remarkably [410 
extensive, being indeed confined to two 
words — the Arabic word for barley, and 
the Turkish for opium (madjoon), which 
I have learned from Anastasius. And, 
as I had neither a Malay dictionary, nor 
even Adelung's Mithridates , which might 
have helped me to. a few words, I ad- 
dressed him in some' fines from the Iliad; 
considering that, of such languages as I 
possessed, Greek, in point of longitude, [420 
came geographically nearest to an Ori- 
ental one. He worshipped me in a most 
devout manner, and replied in what I 
suppose was Malay. In this way I saved 
my reputation with my neighbors; for 
the Malay had no means of betraying the 
secret. He lay down upon the floor for 
about an hour, and then pursued his 
journey. On his departure I presented 
i him with a piece of opium. To him, [430 



556 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



as an Orientalist, I concluded that opium 
must be familiar; and the expression of 
his face convinced me that it was. Never- 
theless, I was struck with some little 
consternation when I saw him suddenly 
raise his hand to his mouth, and, in the 
school-boy phrase, bolt the whole, di- 
vided into three pieces, at one mouthful. 
The quantity was enough to kill three 
dragoons and their horses; and I felt [440 
some alarm for the poor creature; but 
what could be done? I had given him 
the opium in compassion for his solitary 
life, on recollecting that if he had travelled 
on foot from London, it must be nearly 
three weeks since he could have ex- 
changed a thought with any human 
being. I could not think of violating the 
laws of hospitality, by ha\Tiig him seized 
and drenched with an emetic, and [450 
thus frightening him mto a notion that 
we were going to sacrifice him to some 
English idol. No: there was clearly no 
help for it;— he took his leave, and for 
some daj^s I felt anxious; but as I never 
heard of any Malay being found dead, 
I became con\inced that he was used to 
opium; and that I must have done him 
the ser\ice I designed, by giving him one 
night of respite from the pains of [460 
wandering. 



I now pass to what is the main subject 
of these latter Confessions, to the his- 
tory and journal of what took place in 
my dreams; for these were the immediate 
and proximate cause of my acutest suf- 
fering. 

The first notice I had of any important 
change going on in this part of my physical 
economy, was from the re-awakening [470 
of a state of eye generally incident to 
childhood, or exalted states of irritability. 
I kno%v not w^hether my reader is aware 
that many children, perhaps most, have 
a power of painting, as it were, upon the 
darkness, all sorts of phantoms; in some, 
that power is simply a mechanic affec- 
tion of the eye; others have a voluntar}-, 
or semi-voluntarj,' power to dismiss or 
to summon them; or, as a child once [4S0 
said to me when I questioned him on this 
matter, "I can tell them to go, and they 



go; but sometimes they come, when I 
don't tell them to come." Whereupon 
I told him that he had almost as unlimited 
a command over apparitions as a Roman 
centurion over his soldiers. In the middle 
of 181 7, I think it was, that this faculty 
became positively distressing to me: 
at night, when I lay awake in bed, [490 
vast processions passed along in mourn- 
ful pomp; friezes of never-ending stories, 
that to my feelings were as sad and 
solemn as if they were stories drawn from 
times before (Edipus or Priam — before 
Tyre — before Memphis. And, at the 
same time, a corresponding change took 
place in my dreams; a theatre seemed 
suddenly opened and lighted up within 
my brain, which presented nightly [500 
spectacles of more than earthly splendor. 
And the four following facts may be men- 
tioned, as noticeable at this time: 

1. That as the creative state of the eye 
increased, a sympathy seemed to arise 
between the w^aking and the dreaming 
states of the brain in one point — that 
W'hatsoever I happened to call up and to 
trace by a voluntary act upon the dark- 
ness was very apt to transfer itself to [510 
my dreams; so that I feared to exercise 
this faculty; for, as Midas turned all 
things to gold, that yet bafiled his hopes 
and defrauded his human desires, so 
w^hatsoever things capable of being visu- 
ally represented I did but think of in the 
darkness, immediately shaped themselves 
into phantoms of the eye; and, by a 
process apparently no less inevitable, Avhen 
thus once traced in faint and visionary [520 
colors, like writings in sympathetic ink, 
they were drawn out by the fierce chemis- 
try^ of my dreams, into insufferable splen- 
dor that fretted my heart. 

2. For this, and all other changes in 
my dreams, were accompanied by deep- 
seated anxiety and gloomy melancholy, 
such as are wholly incommunicable by 
words. I seemed ever\^ night to descend, 
not metaphorically, but literally to [530 
descend, into chasms and sunless abysses, 
depths below depths, from which it seemed 
hopeless that I could ever re-ascend. 
Nor did I, by waking, feel that I had 
re-ascended. This I do not dwell upon; 
because the state of gloom which at- 



DE QUINCEY 



SSI 



tended these gorgeous spectacles, amount- 
ing at last to utter darkness, as of some 
suicidal despondency, cannot be ap- 
proached by words. [540 

3. The sense of space, and, in the end, 
the sense of time, were both powerfully 
affected. Buildings, landscapes, etc., were 
exhibited in proportions so vast as the 
bodily eye is not fitted to receive. Space 
swelled, and was amplified to an extent 
of unutterable infinity. This, however, 
did not disturb me so much as the vast 
expansion of time; I sometimes seemed 
to have lived for seventy or a hundred [550 
years in one night; nay, sometimes had 
feelings representative of a millennium 
passed in that time, or, however, of a 
duration far beyond the limits of any 
human experience. 

4. The minutest incidents of childhood, 
or forgotten scenes of later years, were 
often revived; I could not be said to 
recollect them; for if I had been told of 
them when waking, I should not have [560 
been able to acknowledge them as parts 
of my past experience. But placed as 
they were before me, in dreams like in- 
tuitions, and clothed in all their evanes- 
cent circumstances and accompanying 
feelings, I recognised them instanta- 
neously. I was once told by a near rela- 
tive of mine, that having in her childhood 
fallen into a river, and being on the very 
verge of death but for the critical as- [570 
sistance which reached her, she saw in a 
moment her whole life, in its minutest 
incidents, arrayed before her simulta- 
neously as in a mirror; and she had a 
faculty developed as suddenly for com- 
prehending the whole and every part. 
This, from some opium experiences of 
mine, I can believe; I have, indeed, seen 
the same thing asserted tmce in modem 
books, and accompanied by a remark [580 
which I am convinced is true — viz., that 
the dread book of account, which the 
Scriptures speak of, is, in fact, the mind 
itself of each individual. Of this, at least, 
I feel assured, that there is no such thing 
as forgetting possible to the mind; a 
thousand accidents may and will inter- 
pose a veil between our present con- 
sciousness and the secret inscriptions on 
the mind; accidents of the same sort [590 



will also rend away this veil; but alike, 
whether veiled or unveiled, the inscrip- 
tion remains for ever; just as the stars 
seem to withdraw before the common 
light of day, whereas, in fact, we all know 
that it is the light which is drawn over 
them as a veil, and that they are waiting 
to be revealed when the obscuring day- 
light shall have withdrawn. 

Having noticed these four facts as [600 
memorably distinguishing my dreams 
from those of health, I shall now cite a 
case illustrative of the first fact; and shall 
then cite any others that I remember, 
either in their chronological order, or 
any other that may give them more effect 
as pictures to the reader. 

I had been in youth, and even since, 
for occasional amusement, a great reader 
of Livy, whom, I confess, that I pre- [610 
fer, both for style and matter, to any 
other of the Roman historians; and I 
had often felt as most solemn and appal- 
ling sounds, and most emphatically repre- 
sentative of the majesty of the Roman 
people, the two words so often occur- 
ring in Livy — Consul Romanus; especially 
w^hen the consul is introduced in his mili- 
tary character. I mean to say that the 
words king — sultan — regent, etc., or [620 
any other titles of those who embody in 
their own persons the collective majesty of 
a great people, had less power over my 
reverential feelings. I had also, though 
no great reader of history, made myself 
minutely and critically famiUar with 
one period of English history — viz., the 
period of the Parliamentary War — having 
been attracted by the moral grandeur of 
some who figured in that day, and [630 
by the many interesting memoirs which 
survive those unquiet times. Both these 
parts of my lighter reading, having fur- 
nished me often with matter of reflection, 
now furnished me with matter for my 
dreams. Often I used to see, after paint- 
ing upon the blank darkness a sort of 
rehearsal whilst waking, a crowd of ladies, 
and perhaps a festival, and dances. And 
I heard it said, or I said to myself, [640 
"These are English ladies from the un- 
happy times of Charles I. These are the 
wives and the daughters of those who 
met in peace, and sat at the same tables, 



558 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



and were allied by marriage or by blood; 
and yet, after a certain day in August, 
1642, never smiled upon each other 
again, nor met but in the field of battle; 
and at Marston Moor, at Newbury, or 
at Naseby, cut asunder all ties of love [650 
by the cruel sabre, and washed away in 
blood the memory of ancient friendship." 
The ladies danced, and looked as lovely 
as the court of George IV. Yet I knew, 
even in my dreams, that they had been 
in the grave for nearly two centuries. 
This pageant would suddenly dissolve; 
and, at a clapping of hands, would be 
heard the heart-quaking sound of Consul 
Romanus; and immediately came [660 
"sweeping by," in gorgeous paludaments, 
Paulus or Marius, girt round by a com- 
pany of centurions, with the crimson 
tunic hoisted on a spear, and followed by 
the alalagmos of the Roman legions. 



And now came a tremendous change, 
which, unfolding itself slowly like a scroll, 
through many months, promised an 
abiding torment; and, in fact, it never 
left me until the winding up of my [670 
case. Hitherto the human face had 
mixed often in my dreams, but not 
despotically, nor with any special power 
of tormenting. But now that which I 
have called the tyranny of the human 
face began to unfold itself. Perhaps 
some part of my London life might be 
answerable for this. Be that as it may, 
now it was that upon the rocking waters 
of the ocean the human face began to [680 
appear: the sea appeared paved with 
innumerable faces, upturned to the heav- 
ens; faces imploring, wrathful, despairing, 
surged upwards by thousands, by myr- 
iads, by generations, by centuries: — my 
agitation was infinite, — my mind tossed 
and surged with the ocean. 

May, 1818. 
The Malay has been a fearful enemy 
for months. I have been every night, 
through his means, transported into [690 
Asiatic scenes. I know not whether 
others share in my feelings on this point; 
but I have often thought that if I were 
compelled to forego England, and to live 



in China, and among Chinese manners 
and modes of life and scenery, I should 
go mad. The causes of my horror lie 
deep; and some of them must be com- 
mon to others. Southern Asia, in general, 
is the seat of awful images and asso- [700 
ciations. As the cradle of the human 
race, it would alone have a dim and 
reverential feeling connected with it. 
But there are other reasons. No man 
can pretend that the wild, barbarous, 
and capricious superstitions of Africa, 
or of savage tribes elsewhere, affect him 
in the way that he is affected by the an- 
cient, monumental, cruel, and elaborate 
rehgions of Indostan, etc. The mere [710 
antiquity of Asiatic things, of their in- 
stitutions, histories, modes of faith, etc., 
is so impressive, that to me the vast 
age of the race and name overpowers 
the sense of youth in the individual. A 
yoimg Chinese seems to me an ante- 
diluvian man renewed. Even English- 
men, though not bred in any knowledge 
of such institutions, cannot but shudder 
at the mystic sublimity of castes that [720 
have flowed apart, and refused to mix, 
j tTirough such immemorial tracts of time; 
nor can any man fail to be awed by the 
names of the Ganges, or the Euphrates. 
It contributes much to these feelings, that 
southern Asia is, and has been for thou- 
sands of years, the part of the earth most 
swarming wdth human life; the great 
officina gentium. Man is a weed in those 
regions. The vast empires also, into [730 
which the enormous population of Asia 
has always been cast, give a further 
sublimity to the feelings associated with 
all oriental names or images. In China, 
over and above what it has in common 
with the rest of southern Asia, I am 
terrified by the modes of life, by the man- 
ners, and the barrier of utter abhorrence, 
and want of sympathy, placed between 
us by feelings deeper than I can [740 
analyse. I could sooner live with lunatics, 
or brute animals. All this, and much 
more than I can say, or have time to say, 
the reader must enter into before he 
can comprehend the unimaginable horror 
which these dreams of oriental imagery, 
and mythological tortures, impressed upon 
me. Under the connecting feeling of 



DE QUINCEY 



559 



tropical heat and vertical sunlights, I 
brought together all creatures, birds, [750 
beasts, reptiles, all trees and plants, 
usages and appearances, that are found j 
in all tropical regions, and assembled ! 
them together in China or Indostan. i 
From kindred feelings, I soon brought 
Egypt and all her gods under the same 
law. I was stared at, hooted at, grinned 
at, chattered at, by monkeys, by paro- 
quets, by cockatoos. I ran into pago- 
das: and was fixed, for centuries, [760 
at the summit, or in secret rooms; I was 
the idol; I was the priest; I was wor- 
shipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the 
wrath of Brahma through all the forests of 
Asia: Vishnu hated me: Seeva laid wait 
for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and 
Osiris: I had done a deed, they said, 
which the ibis and the crocodile trembled 
at. I was buried, for a thousand 
years, in stone coffins, with mummies [770 
and sphinxes, in narrow chambers at the 
heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed, 
with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; and 
laid, confounded with all unutterable 
slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic 
mud. 

I thus give the reader some slight ab- 
straction of my oriental dreams, which 
always filled me with such amazement 
at the monstrous scenery, that [780 
horror seemed absorbed, for a while, in 
sheer astonishment. Sooner or later, 
came a reflux of feeling that swallowed up 
the astonishment, and left me, not so 
much in terror, as in hatred and abomina- 
tion of what I saw. Over every form, 
and threat, and punishment, and dim 
sightless incarceration, brooded a sense 
of eternity and infinity that drove me into 
an oppression as of madness. Into [790 
these dreams only, it was, with one or 
two slight exceptions, that any circum- 
stances of physical horror entered. All 
before had been moral and spiritual 
terrors. But here the main agents were 
ugly birds, or snakes, or crocodiles; es- 
pecially the last. The cursed crocodile 
became to me the object of more horror 
than almost all the rest. I was com- 
pelled to live with him; and (as was [Soo 
always the case almost in my dreams) 
for centuries. I escaped sometimes, and 



found myself in Chinese houses, with 
cane tables, etc. All the feet of the 
tables, sofas, etc., soon became instinct 
with life: the abominable head of the 
crocodile, and his leering eyes, looked out 
at me, multiplied into a thousand repeti- 
tions: and I stood loathing and fasci- 
nated. And so often did this hideous [810 
reptile haunt my dreams, that many 
times the very same dream was broken 
up in the very same way: I heard gentle 
voices speaking to me (I hear everything 
when I am sleeping); and instantly I 
awoke: it was broad noon; and my chil- 
dren were standing, hand in hand, at my 
bed-side; come to show me their colored 
shoes, or new frocks, or to let me see them 
dressed for going out. I protest that so [820 
awful was the transition from the damned 
crocodile, and the other unutterable mon- 
sters and abortions of my dreams, to the 
sight of innocent human natures and of 
infancy, that, in the mighty and sudden 
revulsion of mind, I wept, and could not 
forbear it, as I kissed their faces. 



ON THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE 
IN MACBETH 

From my boyish days I had always felt 
a great perplexity on one point in Mac- 
beth. It was this: — the knocking at the 
gate which succeeds to the murder of 
Duncan produced to my feelings an ef- 
fect for which I could never account. 
The effect was that it reflected back upon 
the murderer a peculiar awfulness and 
a depth of solemnity; yet however ob- 
stinately I endeavored with my un- [10 
derstanding to comprehend this, for many 
years I never could see why it should 
produce such an effect. 



My understanding could furnish no 
reason why the knocking at the gate in 
Macbeth should produce any effect, direct 
or reflected. In fact, my understanding 
said positively that it could not produce 
any effect. But I knew better; I felt that 
it did; and I waited and clung to the [20 
problem until further knowledge should 
enable me to solve it. At length, in 1S12, 



56o 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



Mr. Williams made his debut on the stage 
of Ratcliffe Highway, and executed those 
unparalleled murders ^Yhich have procured 
for him such a brilliant and undying repu- 
tation. On which murders, by the way, 
I must observe that in one respect they 
have had an ill effect, by making the 
connoisseur in murder very fastidious [30 
in his taste, and dissatisfied by anything 
that has been since done in that line. All 
other murders look pale by the deep crim- 
son of his; and, as an amateur once said 
to me in a querulous tone, "There has 
been absolutely nothing doing since his 
time, or nothing that's worth speaking 
of." But this is wrong; for it is unrea- 
sonable to expect all men to be great 
artists, and born with the genius of [40 
Mr. Williams. Now, it will be remem- 
bered that in the first of these murders 
(that of the Marrs) the same incident (of 
a knocking at the door soon after the 
extermination was complete) did ac- 
tually occur which the genius of Shake- 
speare has invented; and all good judges, 
and the most eminent dilettanti, ac- 
knowledged the felicity of Shakespeare's 
suggestion as soon as it was actually [50 
realized. Here, then, was a fresh proof 
that I was right in relying on my own 
feeling, in opposition to my understand- 
ing; and again I set myself to study the 
problem. At length I solved it to my 
own satisfaction; and my solution is 
this: — Murder, in ordinary cases, where 
the sympathy is wholly directed to the 
case of the murdered person, is an incident 
of coarse and vulgar horror; and for [60 
this reason, — that it flings the interest 
exclusively upon the natural but ignoble 
instinct by which we cleave to life: an 
instinct w^hich, as being indispensable 
to the primal law of self-preservation, 
is the same in kind (though different 
in degree) amongst all living creatures. 
This instinct, therefore, because it anni- 
hilates all distinctions, and degrades the 
greatest of men to the level of "the [70 
poor beetle that we tread on," exhibits 
human nature in its most abject and 
humiliating attitude. Such an attitude 
would little suit the purposes of the poet. 
What then must he do? He must throw 
the interest on the murderer. Our sym- 



pathy must be with him (of course I 
mean a sympathy of comprehension, a 
sympathy by which we enter into his 
feelings, and are made to understand [80 
them, — not a sympathy of pity or ap- 
probation). In the murdered person, all 
strife of thought, all flux and reflux of 
passion and of purpose, are crushed by 
one overwhelming panic; the fear of in- 
stant death smites him "with its petrific 
mace." But in the murderer, such a 
murderer as a poet will condescend to, 
there must be raging some storm of pas- 
sion, — jealousy, ambition, vengeance, [90 
hatred, — which will create a hell within 
him; and into this hell we are to look. 

In Macbeth, for the sake of gratifying 
his own enormous and teeming faculty 
of creation, Shakespeare has introduced 
two murderers: and, as usual in his hands, 
they are remarkably discriminated: but, — 
though in Macbeth the strife of mind is 
greater than in his wife, the tiger spirit 
not so awake, and his feelings caught [100 
chiefly by contagion from her, — yet, as 
both were finally involved in the guilt of 
murder, the murderous mind of necessity 
is finally to be presumed in both. This 
was to be expressed; and, on its own ac- 
count, as well as to make it a more pro- 
portionable antagonist to the unoffending 
nature of their victim, "the gracious 
Duncan," and adequately to expound 
"the deep damnation of his taking [no 
off," this was to be expressed with pe- 
culiar energy. We were to be made to 
feel that the human nature, — i. e., the 
divine nature of love and mercy, spread 
through the hearts of all creatures, and 
seldom utterly withdrawn from man, — 
was gone, vanished, extinct, and that the 
fiendish nature had taken its place. And, 
as this effect is marvellously accom- 
plished in the dialogues S.nd soliloquies [120 
themselves, so it is finally consummated 
by the expedient under consideration; 
and it is to this that I now solicit the 
reader's attention. If the reader has 
ever witnessed a wife, daughter, or sister, 
in a fainting fit, he may chance to have 
observed that the most affecting moment 
in such a spectacle is that in which a 
sigh and a stirring announce the recom- 
mencement of suspended life. Or, if [130 



DE QUINCEY 



561 



the reader has ever been present in a vast 
metropolis on the day when some great 
national idol was carried in funeral pomp 
to his grave, and, chancing to walk near 
the course through which it passed, has 
felt powerfully, in the silence and deser- 
tion of the streets, and in the stagnation 
of ordinary business, the deep interest 
which at that moment was possessing 
the heart of m.an, — if all at once he [140 
should hear the death-like stillness broken 
up by the sound of wheels rattling away 
from the scene, and making known that 
the transitory vision was dissolved, he 
will be aware that at no moment was his 
sense of the complete suspension and 
pause in ordinary human concerns so 
full and affecting as at that moment 
when the suspension ceases, and the 
goings-on of human life are suddenly [150 
resumed. All action in any direction is 
best expounded, measured, and made 
apprehensible, by reaction. Now, apply 
this to the case in Macbeth. Here, as I 
have said, the retiring of the human heart 
and the entrance of the fiendish heart was 
to be expressed and made sensible. An- 
other world has stepped in; and the mur- 
derers are taken out of the region of 
human things, human purposes, hu- [160 
man desires. They are transfigured: 
Lady Macbeth is "unsexed;" Macbeth 
has forgot that he was born of woman; 
both are conformed to the image of 
devils; and the world of devils is sud- 
denly revealed. But how shall this be 
conveyed and made palpable? In order 
that a new world may step in, this world 
must for a time disappear. The mur- 
derers and the murder must be in- [170 
sulated — cut off by an immeasurable 
gulf from the ordinary tide and succes- 
sion of human affairs — locked up and 
sequestered in some deep recess; we must 
be made sensible that the world of ordinary 
life is suddenly arrested, laid asleep, 
tranced, racked into a dread armistice; 
time must be annihilated, relation to 
things without abolished; and all must 
pass self- withdrawn into a deep [180 
syncope and suspension of earthly pas- 
sion. Hence it is that, when the deed is 
done, when the work of darkness is 
perfect, then the world of darkness passes 



away like a pageantry in the clouds: the 
knocking at the gate is heard, and it 
makes known audibly that the reaction 
has commenced; the human has made its 
reflux upon the fiendish; the pulses of life 
are beginning to beat again; and the [190 
re-establishment of the goings-on of the 
world in which we live first makes us pro- 
foundly sensible of the awful parenthesis 
that had suspended them. 

O mighty poet! Thy works are not as 
those of other men, simply and merely 
great works of art, but are also like the 
phenomena of nature, like the sun and 
the sea, the stars and the flowers, like 
frost and snow, rain and dew, hail- [200 
storm and thunder, which are to be 
studied with entire submission of our own 
faculties, and in the perfect faith that in 
them there can be no too much or too 
little, nothing useless or inert, but that, 
the farther we press in our discoveries, 
the more we shall see proofs of design and 
self-supporting arrangement where the 
careless eye had seen nothing but ac- 
cident! 



LEVANA AND OUR LADIES OF 
SORROW 

From SusPiRiA de Profundis 

Oftentimes at Oxford I saw Levana in 
my dreams. I knew her by her Roman 
symbols. Who is Levana? Reader, that 
do not pretend to have leisure for very 
much scholarship, you will not be angry 
with me for telling you. Levana was the 
Roman goddess that performed for the 
new-born infant the earliest office of 
ennobling kindness, — typical, by its mode, 
of that grandeur which belongs to [ro 
man everywhere, and of that benignity 
in powers invisible which even in Pagan 
worlds sometimes descends to sustain it. 
At the very moment of birth, just as the 
infant tasted for the first time the atmos- 
phere of our troubled planet, it was laid 
on the ground. That might bear different 
interpretations. But immediately, lest 
so grand a creature should grovel there 
for more than one instant, either the [20 
paternal hand, as proxy for the goddess 
Levana, or some near kinsman, as proxy 



562 



THE AGE OF ROMANTICISM 



for the father, raised it upright, bade it 
look erect as the king of all this world, 
and presented its forehead to the stars, 
saying, perhaps, in his heart, "Behold 
what is greater than yourselves!" This 
symbolic act represented the function of 
Levana. And that mysterious lady, who 
never revealed her face (except to me [30 
in dreams), but always acted by delega- 
tion, had her name from the Latin verb 
(as still it is the Italian verb) levare, to 
raise aloft. 

This is the explanation of Levana, 
and hence it has arisen that some people 
have understood by Levana the tutelary 
power that controls the education of the 
nurser>\ She, that would not suffer at 
his birth even a prefigurative or mimic [40 
degradation for her awful ward, far less 
could be supposed to suffer the real 
degradation attaching to the non-develop- 
ment of his powers. She therefore watches 
over human education. Now the word 
ediico, with the penultimate short, was 
derived (by a process often exemplified 
in the crystallisation of languages) from 
the world educo, with the penultimate 
long. Whatsoever educes, or develops, [50 
educates. By the education of Levana, 
therefore, is meant, — not the poor ma- 
chinery that moves by spelling-books and 
grammars, but that mighty system of 
central forces hidden in the deep bosom 
of human life, which by passion, by 
strife, by temptation, by the energies of 
resistance, works for ever upon children, — 
resting not day or night, any more than 
the mighty wheel of day and night [60 
themselves, whose moments, like restless 
spokes, are glimmering for ever as they 
revolve. 

If, then, these are the ministries by 
which Levana works, how profoundly 
must she reverence the agencies of grief! 
But you, reader, think that children 
generally are not liable to grief such as 
mine. There are two senses in the word 
generally, — the sense of Euclid, where [70 
it means imiversally (or in the whole 
extent of the genus), and a foolish sense 
of this word, where it means usually. 
Now, I am far from saying that children 
universally are capable of grief like mine. 
But there are more than you ever heard 



of who die of grief in this island of ours. 
I will tell you a common case. The rules 
of Eton require that a boy on the foun- 
dation should be there twelve years: [So 
he is superannuated at eighteen, conse- 
quently he must come at six. Children 
torn away from mothers and sisters at 
that age not unfrequently die. I speak 
of what I know. The complaint is not 
entered by the registrar as grief; but 
that it is. Grief of that sort, and at that 
age, has killed more than ever have been 
counted amongst its martyrs. 

Therefore it is that Levana often [90 
communes with the powers that shake 
man's heart: therefore it is that she dotes 
upon grief. "These ladies," said I softly 
to myself, on seeing the ministers with 
whom Levana was conversing, "these 
are the Sorrows; and they are three in 
number, as the Graces are three, who 
dress man's life with beauty; the Parcae 
are three, who weave the dark arras of 
man's life in their mysterious loom, [100 
always with colors sad in part, some- 
times angry with tragic crimson and 
black; the Furies are three, who visit with 
retributions called from the other side 
of the grave offences that walk upon this; 
and once even the Muses were but three, 
who fit the harp, the trumpet, or the lute, 
to the great burdens of man's impas- 
sioned creations. These are the Sorrows, 
all three of whom I know." The last [no 
words I say now; but in Oxford I said, 
"One of whom I know, and the others too 
surely I shall know." For already, in my 
fervent youth, I saw (dimly relieved upon 
the dark background of my dreams) 
the imperfect lineaments of the awful 
sisters. These sisters — by what name 
shall we call them? If I say simply, 
"The Sorrows," there will be a chance 
of mistaking the term; it might be [120 
understood of individual sorrow, — sepa- 
rate cases of sorrow, — whereas I want a 
term expressing the mighty abstractions 
that incarnate themselves in all indi- 
vidual suft'erings of man's heart; and I 
wish to have these abstractions presented 
as impersonations, that is, as clothed 
with human attributes of life, and with 
functions pointing to flesh. Let us call 
them, therefore, Our Ladies oj Sorrow. [130 



DE QUINCEY 



563 



I know them thoroughly, and have 
walked in all their kingdoms. Three 
sisters they are, of one mysterious house- 
hold; and their paths are wide apart; but 
of their dominion there is no end. Them 
I saw often conversing with Levana, and 
sometimes about myself. Do they talk, 
then? Oh, no! Mighty phantoms like 
these disdain the infirmities of language. 
They may utter voices through the [140 
organs of man when they dwell in hu- 
man hearts, but amongst themselves is no 
voice nor sound; eternal silence reigns in 
their kingdoms. They spoke not, as they 
talked with Levana; they whispered not; 
they sang not; though oftentimes me- 
thought they might have sung: for I upon 
earth had heard their mysteries often- 
times deciphered by harp and timbrel, 
by dulcimer and organ. Like God, [150 
whose servants they are, they utter their 
pleasure, not by sounds that perish, or 
by words that go astray, but by signs in 
heaven, by changes on earth, by pulses 
in secret rivers, heraldries painted on 
darkness, and hieroglyphics wi'itten on 
the tablets of the brain. They wheeled 
in mazes; / spelled the steps. They 
telegraphed from afar; / read the signals. 
They conspired together; and on the [160 
mirrors of darkness my eye traced the 
plots. Theirs were the symbols; mine 
are the w^ords. 

What is it the sisters are? What is it 
that they do? Let me describe their 
form, and their presence: if form it were 
that still fluctuated in its outline, or 
presence it were that for ever advanced 
to the front, or for ever receded amongst 
shades. [170 

The eldest of the three is named Mater 
Lachrymariim, Our Lady of Tears. She 
it is that night and day raves and 
moans, calling for vanished faces. She 
stood in Rama, where a voice was heard 
of lamentation, — Rachel weeping for her 
children, and refusing to be comforted. 
She it was that stood in Bethlehem on 
the night when Herod's sword swept its 
nurseries of Innocents, and the little [iSc 
feet were stiflfened for ever, which, heard 
at times as they tottered along floors o\'er- 
head, woke pulses of love in household 
hearts that were not unmarked in heaven. 



Her eyes are sweet and subtle, wild and 
sleepy, by turns; oftentimes rising to the 
clouds, oftentimes challenging the heav- 
ens. She wears a diadem round her head. 
And I knew by childish memories that 
she could go abroad upon the winds, [190 
when she heard the sobbing of litanies 
or the thundering of organs, and when 
she beheld the mustering of summer 
clouds. This sister, the eldest, it is that 
carries keys more than papal at her 
girdle, which open every cottage and 
every palace. She, to my knowledge, sat 
all last summer by the bedside of the blind 
b'eggar, him that so often and so gladly 
I talked with, whose pious daughter, [200 
eight years old, with the sunny coun- 
tenance, resisted the temptations of play 
and village mirth to travel all day long 
on dusty roads with her afflicted father. 
For this did God send her a great reward. 
In the spring-time of the year, and whilst 
yet her own spring was budding, He re- 
called her to himself. But her blind 
father mourns for ever over her; still he 
dreams at midnight that the little [210 
guiding hand is locked within his own; 
and still he wakens to a darkness that is 
now within a second and a deeper darkness. 
This Mater Lachrymarum also has been 
sitting all this winter of 1S44-5 within 
the bed-chamber of the Czar, bringing 
before his eyes a daughter (not less pious) 
that vanished to God not less suddenly, 
and left behind her a darkness not less 
profound. By the power of the [220 
keys it is that Our Lady of Tears glides 
a ghostly intruder into the chambers of 
sleepless men, sleepless women, sleepless 
children, from Ganges to Nile, from Nile 
to Mississippi. And her, because she 
is the first-bom of her house, and has 
the \A-idest empire, let us honor with the 
title of "Madonna!" 

The second sister is called Mater Sus- 
pirionmi — Our Lady of Sighs. She [230 
never scales the clouds, nor walks abroad 
upon the winds. She wears no diadem. 
And her eyes, if they were ever seen, 
would be neither sweet nor subtle; no 
man could read their story; they would 
be found filled ^^•ith perishing dreams, 
and with wrecks of forgotten delirium. 
But she raises not her eyes; her head, on 



5^4 



xnn, ixKjJi, \jr jx\jiyin.i\ L iK^LOivi 



which sits a dilapidated turban, droops 
for ever, for ever fastens on the dust. [240 
She weeps not. She groans not. But she 
sighs inaudibly at intervals. Her sister. 
Madonna, is oftentimes stormy and fran- 
tic, raging in the highest against heaven, 
and demanding back her darlings. But 
Our Lady of Sighs never clamors, never 
defies, dreams not of rebellious aspira- 
tions. She is humble to abjectness. Hers 
is the meekness that belongs to the hope- 
less. Murmur she may, but it is in [250 
her sleep. Whisper she may, but it is to 
herself in the twilight. Mutter she does 
at times, but it is in solitary places that 
are desolate as she is desolate, in ruined 
cities, and when the sun has gone down to 
his rest. This sister is the visitor of the 
Pariah, of the Jew, of the bondsman to the 
oar in the Mediterranean galleys; and of 
the English criminal in Norfolk Island, 
blotted out from the books of remem- [260 
brance in sweet far-off England; of the 
baffled penitent reverting his eyes for 
ever upon a solitary grave, which to him 
seems the altar overthrown of some past 
and bloody sacrifice, on which altar no 
oblations can now be availing, whether 
towards pardon that he might implore, 
or towards reparation that he might at- 
tempt. Every slave that at noonday looks 
up to the tropical sun with timid re- [270 
proach, as he points with one hand to the 
earth, our general mother, but for him a 
stepmother, — as he points with the other 
hand to the Bible, our general teacher, 
but against him sealed and sequestered; — 
every woman sitting in darkness, without 
love to shelter her head, or hope to illu- 
mine her solitude, because the heaven- 
born instincts kindling in her nature 
germs of holy affections which God [280 
implanted in her womanly bosom, hav- 
ing been stifled by social necessities, now 
burn sullenly to waste, like sepulchral 
lamps amongst the ancients; every nun 
defrauded of her unreturning May-time 
by wicked kinsman, whom God will 
judge; every captive in every dungeon; 
all that are betrayed and all that are 
rejected; outcasts by traditionary law, 
and children of hereditary disgrace, — [290 
all these walk with Our Lady of Sighs. 
She also carries a key; but she needs it 



little. For her kingdom is chiefly amongst 
the tents of Shem, and the houseless 
vagrant of every chme. Yet in the very 
highest ranks of man she finds chapels 
of her own; and even in glorious England 
there are some that, to the world, carry 
their heads as proudly as the reindeer, 
who yet secretly have received her [300 
mark upon their foreheads. 

But the third sister, who is also the 

youngest ! Hush, whisper whilst we 

talk of her! Her kingdom is not large, or 
else no flesh should live; but within that 
kingdom all power is hers. Her head, 
turreted like that of Cybele, rises almost 
beyond the reach of sight. She droops 
not; and her eyes rising so high might 
be hidden by distance; but, being what [310 
they are, they cannot be hidden; through 
the treble veil of crape which she wears, 
the fierce light of a blazing misery, that 
rests not for matins or for vespers, for 
noon of day or noon of night, for ebbing or 
for flowing tide, may be read from the 
very ground. She is the defier of God. 
She also is the mother of lunacies, and 
the suggestress of suicides. Deep lie the 
roots of her power; but narrow is the [320 
nation that she rules. For she can ap- 
proach only those in whom a profound 
nature has been upheaved by central 
convulsions; in whom the heart trembles, 
and the brain rocks under conspiracies 
of tempest from without and tempest 
from within. Madonna moves with 
uncertain steps, fast or slow, but still 
with tragic grace. Our Lady of Sighs 
creeps timidly and stealthily. But [330 
this youngest sister moves with incal- 
culable motions, bounding, and with 
tiger's leaps. She carries no key; for, 
though coming rarely amongst men, she 
storms all doors at which she is permitted 
to enter at all. And her name is Mater 
Tenebrarum — Our Lady of Darkness. 

These were the Semnai Theai, or Sub- 
lime Goddesses, these were the Eumenides, 
or Gracious Ladies (so called by an- [340 
tiquity in shuddering propitiation), of 
my Oxford dreams. Madonna spoke. 
She spoke by her mysterious hand. 
Touching my head, she beckoned to 
Our Lady of Sighs; and what she spoke, 
translated out of the signs which (ex- 



DE QUINCEY 



s(>s 



cept in dreams) no man reads, was 
this: — 

"Lo! here is he, whom in childhood I 
dedicated to my altars. This is he [350 
that once I made my darling. Him I led 
astray, him I beguiled, and from heaven 
I stole away his young heart to mine. 
Through me did he become idolatrous; 
and through me it was, by languishing 
desires, that he worshipped the worm, 
and prayed to the wormy grave. Holy 
was the grave to him ; lovely was its dark- 
ness; saintly its corruption. Him, this 
young idolater, I have seasoned for [360 
thee, dear gentle Sister of Sighs ! Do thou 
take him now to thy heart, and season 
him for our dreadful sister. And thou," — 
turning to the Mater Tenebrarum, she 



said, — "wicked sister, that temptest and 
hatest, do thou take him from her. See 
that thy sceptre lie heavy on his head. 
Suffer not woman and her tenderness to 
sit near him in his darkness. Banish the 
frailties of hope, wither the relenting [370 
of love, scorch the fountains of tears, 
curse him as only thou canst curse. So 
shall he be accomplished in the furnace, 
so shall he see the things that ought not 
to be seen, sights that are abominable, 
and secrets that are unutterable. So shall 
he read elder truths, sad truths, grand 
truths, fearful truths. So shall he rise 
again before he dies, and so shall our com- 
mission be accomplished which from [380 
God we had, — to plague his heart until we 
had unfolded the capacities of his spirit." 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



WALTER SAVAGE LAND OR 

(1775-1864) 

ROSE AYLMER 

Ah what avails the sceptred race, 

Ah what the form divine ! 
What every virtue, every grace! 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 5 

May weep, but never see, 
A night of memories and of sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 



THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA 

"Artemidora! Gods invisible, 
While thou art lying faint along the 

couch, 
Have tied the sandal to thy slender feet 
And stand beside thee, ready to convey 
Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. 5 
Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness 
Away, and voices like thy own come near 
And nearer, and soHcit an embrace." 
Artemidora sighed, and would have 

pressed 
The hand now pressing hers, but was too 

weak. 10 

Iris stood over her dark hair unseen 
While thus Elpenor spake. He looked 

into 
Eyes that had given light and life ere- 

while 
To those above them, but now dim with 

tears 
And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy i s 
Eternal. At that word, that sad word, 

joy, 
Faithful and fond her bosom heaved once 

more: 
Her head fell back; and now a loud deep 

sob 
Swelled through the darkened chamber; 

'twas not hers. 



SAPPHO TO HESPERUS 

I have beheld thee in the morning hour 
A solitary star, with thankless eyes, 
Ungrateful as I am! who bade thee rise 
When sleep all night had wandered from 

my bower. 
Can it be true that thou art he 5 

Who shinest now above the sea 
Amid a thousand, but more bright? 
Ah yes ! the very same art thou 
That heard me then and hearest now — 
Thou seemest, star of love! to throb with 

light. 10 



ONE YEAR AGO 

One year ago my path was green, 
My footstep light, my brow serene; 
Alas ! and could it have been so 
One year ago? 

There is a love that is to last 5 

When the hot days of youth are past : 
Such love did a sweet maid bestow 
One year ago. 

I took a leaflet from her braid 
And gave it to another maid. 10 

Love! broken should have been thy bow 
One year ago. 



TO ROBERT BROWNING 

There is delight in singing, though none 

hear 
Beside the singer; and there is delight 
In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
And see the praised far off him, far above. 
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the 

world's, 5 

Therefore on him no speech! and brief for 

thee. 
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and 

hale, 



566 



LAN DOR 



567 



No man hath walked about our roads with 

step 
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
So varied in discourse. But warmer 

climes 10 

Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the 

breeze 
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, 

borne on 
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 



ON THE HELLENICS 

Come back, ye wandering Muses, come 

back home. 
Ye seem to have forgotten where it lies: 
Come, let us walk upon the silent sands 
Of Simois, where deep footmarks show 

long strides; 
Thence we may mount, perhaps, to higher 

ground, ^ 5 

Where Aphrodite from Athene won 
The golden apple, and from Here too. 
And happy Ares shouted far below. 

Or woiid ye rather choose the grassy 

vale 
Where flows Anapos through anem.ones, 10 
Hyacinths, and narcissuses, that bend 
To show their rival beauty in the stream? 
Bring with you each her lyre, and each 

in turn 
Temper a graver with a lighter song. 



IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 
At Aulis, and when all beside the King 
Had gone away, took his right hand, and 

said, 
"0 father! I am young and very happy. 
I do not think the pious Calchas heard 5 
Distinctly what the goddess spake. Old 

age 
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who 

knew 
My voice so well, sometimes misunder- 
stood 
WTiile I was resting on her knee both arms 
And hitting it to make her mind my words. 
And looking in her face, and she in 
mine, n 



Might he not also hear one word amiss. 
Spoken from so far off, even from Olym- 
pus? " 
The father placed his cheek upon her 

head, 
And tears dropped down it, but the king 

of men 15 

Replied not. Then the maiden spake once 

more. 
"O father! sayst thou nothing? Hear'st 

thou not 
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour. 
Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
To hear my voice amid thevoice of birds, 20 
When it was inarticulate as theirs. 
And the down deadened it within the 

nest?" 
He moved her gently from him, silent still, 
And this, and this alone, brought tears 

from her. 
Although she saw fate nearer: then with 

sighs, 2 5 

''I thought to have laid down my hair 

before 
Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed 
Her polished altar with my virgin blood; 
I thought to have selected the white 

flowers 
To please the Nymphs, and to have asked 

of each 30 

By name, and with no sorrowful regret, 
Whether, since both my parents willed the 

change, 
I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipped 

brow; 
And (after those who mind us girls the 

most) 
Adore our own Athena, that she would 35 
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes. 
But father! to see you no more, and see 
Your love, father! go ere I am gone — " 
Gently he moved her off, and drew her 

back. 
Bending his lofty head far over hers, 40 
And the dark depths of nature heaved and 

burst. 
He turned away; not far, but silent still. 
She now first shuddered; for in him, so 

nigh. 
So long a silence seemed the approach of 

death, 
And like it. Once again she raised her 

voice. 45 

"0 father! if the ships are now detained. 



568 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And all your vows move not the Gods above. 
When the knife strikes me there will be one 

prayer 
The less to them: and purer can there be 
Any, or more fervent than the daughter's 

prayer 5° 

For her dear father's safety and success? " 
A groan that shook him shook not his 

resolve. 
An aged man now entered, and without 
One word, stepped slowly on, and took the 

'wrist 
Of the pale maiden. She looked up and 

saw 55 

The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 
Then turned she where her parent stood, 

and cried 
"0 father! grieve no more: the ships can 

sail." 

TO YOUTH 

Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth? 

With wing at either shoulder, 
xAnd smile that never left thy mouth 

Until the Hours grew colder: 

Then somewhat seemed to whisper near 5 

That thou and I must part; 
I doubted it: I felt no fear, 

No weight upon the heart: 

If aught befell it. Love was by 

iA.nd rolled it off again; 10 

So, if there ever was a sigh, 

'Twas not a sigh of pain. 

I may not call thee back; but thou 

Returnest when the hand 
Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow 15 

His poppy-crested wand; 

Then smiling eyes bend over mine, 
Then lips once pressed invite; 

But Sleep hath given a silent sign, 

And both, alas ! take flight. 20 

TO AGE 

Welcome, old friend! These many years 

Have we Hved door by door: 
The fates have laid aside their shears 

Perhaps for some few more. 



I was indocile at an age 5 

W^hen better boys were taught, 

But thou at length hast made me sage. 
If I am sage in aught. 

Little I know from other men, 

Too httle they from me, 10 

But thou hast pointed well the pen 

That writes these lines to thee. 

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, 

One vile, the other vain; 
One's scourge, the other's telescope, 15 

I shall not see again; 

P.ather what lies before my feet 

My notice shall engage — 
He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat 

Dreads not the frost of Age. 20 



ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTH- 
DAY 

I strove with none, for none was worth 
my strife. 
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, 
Art; 
I warmed both hands before the fire of 
Ufe, 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 



TO MY NINTH DECADE 

To my ninth decade I have tottered on, 
And no soft arm bends now my steps 
to steady; 
She, who once led me where she would, 
is gone. 
So when he calls me. Death shall find 
me ready. 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 
(1809-1892) 

THE LADY OF SHALOTT 

PART I 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of r}-e. 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 
And through the field the road rims by 

To many-towered Camelot; 5 



TENNYSON 



569 



And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 
The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 10 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Through the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 15 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veiled. 

Slide the heavy barges trailed 20 

By slow horses; and unbailed 

The shallop fiitteth silken-sailed 

Skimming down to Camelot; 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand? 25 
Or is she known in all the land, * 

The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 

In among the bearded barley, 

Hear a song that echoes cheerly 30 

From the river winding clearly, 

Down to towered Camelot; 
And by the moon the reaper weary. 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers '' 'Tis the fairy 35 

Lady of Shalott." 

PART II 

There she weaves by night and day 

A magic web with colors gay. 

She has heard a whisper say, 

A curse is on her if she stay 40 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be. 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she. 

The Lady of Shalott. 45 

And moving through a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year. 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot; 50 

There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls. 

Pass onward from Shalott. 



Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 55 
An abbot on an ambUng pad. 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-haired page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to towered Camelot; 
And sometimes through the mirror blue 60 
The knights come riding two and two: 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 



But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often through the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot; 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed; 
"I am half sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 



65 



70 



PART III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves. 
He rode between the barley-sheaves. 
The sun came dazzling through the 
leaves, 75 

And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled, 
To a lady in his shield. 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 80 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glittered free, 

Like to some branch of stars we see 

Hung in the golden Galaxy. 

The bridle bells rang merrily 85 

As he rode down to Camelot; 
And from his blazoned baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 90 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jeweled shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burned like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to Camelot; 95 
As often through the purple night. 
Below the starry clusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 99 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed; 
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode; 



57° 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



From underneath his helmet flowed 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 105 
He flashed into the crystal mirror, 
"Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces through the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom, m 

She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She looked down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror cracked from side to side; 115 
"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART IV 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complain- 
ing, 120 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over towered Camelot; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 125 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance. 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 130 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away. 

The Lady of Shalott. 135 

Lying robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Through the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot; 140 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 145 

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
x\nd her eyes were darkened wholly. 
Turned to towered Camelot. 



For ere she reached upon the tide 150 

The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 
By garden-wall and gallery, 155 

A gleaming shape she floated by. 
Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 160 
And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 

And in the lighted palace near 

Died the sound of royal cheer; 165 

And they crossed themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Camelot; 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, "She has a lovely face; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 170 

The Lady of Shalott." 



CENONE 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart the 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine 

to pine. 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway 

down 6 

Hang rich in flowers, and far below them 

roars 
The long brook falHng through the cloven 

ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 10 
Stands up and takes the morning; but in 

front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's columned citadel. 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful (Enone, wandeiring forlorn 15 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 

her neck 
Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. 



TENNYSON 



571 



She, leaning on a fragment twined with 
vine, 

Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- 
shade 20 

Sloped downward to her seat from the 
upper cliff. 

"O mother Ida, many fountained Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill; 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass; 25 
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. 
Rests Hke a shadow, and the winds are 

dead. 
The purple flower droops, the golden bee 
Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. 29 

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
My heart is breaking and my eyes are dim. 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

"0 mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Hear me, earth, hear me, hills, O 

caves 35 

That house the cold crowned snake! 

mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River- God, 
Hear me, for I ^\all speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 40 
A cloud that gathered shape; for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

"0 mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 45 
I waited underneath the da^\Tling hills; 
Aloft the mountain-lawn was dewy-dark. 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine. 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat, white-horned, 
white-hooved, 50 

Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Far off the torrent called me from the cleft; 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down- 
dropped eyes 55 
I sat alone; white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard 

skin 
Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny 
hair 



Clustered about his temples like a God's; 

And his cheek brightened as the foam- 
bow brightens 60 

When the wind blows the foam, and all my 
heart 

Went forth to embrace him coming ere 
he came. 

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk- 
white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 65 
That smelled ambrosially, and while I 

looked 
And listened, the full-flowing river of 

speech 
Came down upon my heart: 

'My own (Enone, 
Beautiful-browed OEnone, my own soul. 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind in- 
graven 70 
For the most fair, would seem to award it 

thine. 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married 
brows.' 

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 75 
He pressed the blossom of his lips to mine. 
And added, 'This was cast upon the board. 
When all the full-faced presence of the 

Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question imto whom 'twere 

due; 80 

But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the 

cave 85 

Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon ; one silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piny sides 91 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they 

came, 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded 

bower. 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire. 



572 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 95 

Lotos and lilies; and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine. 
This way and that, in many a wild fes- 
toon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower through 
and through. 100 

"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flowed a golden cloud, and 

leaned 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her to whom 
Coming through heaven, like a light that 

grows 106 

Larger and clearer, with one mind the 

Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestioned, overflowing revenue no 
Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many 

a vale 
And river-sundered champaign clothed 

with corn. 
Or labored mine undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, 'and homage, tax and 

toll. 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 115 

Mast-thronged beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

"0 mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of 

power, 
'Which in all action is the end of all; 120 
Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor 

crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon 

from me, 
From me, heaven's queen, Paris, to thee 

king-born, 125 

A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born. 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, 

in power 
Only, are likest Gods, who have attained 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 130 
In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 



"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought 

of power 
Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she 

stood 135 

Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made 

reply: 141 

'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
These three alone lead life to sovereign 

power. 
Yet not for power (power of herself 
Would come uncalled for) but to live by 

law, ^ ^ 145 

Acting the law we live by without fear; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence. ' 

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 151 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. 
So shall thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair. 
Unbiased by self-profit, 0, rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to 

thee, ^ 157 

So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward through a life of 

shocks, 160 

Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinewed with action, and the full-grown 

will. 
Circled through all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

Here she ceased, 
And Paris pondered and I cried, 'O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas! ' but he heard me not, 166 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! 

"0 mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 170 

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian 
wells, 



TENNYSON 



573 



With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder; from the violets her light 

foot 175 

Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 

"Dear mother Ida, hark en ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half -whispered in his ear, 'I promise 

thee 182 

The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
She spoke and laughed; I shut my sight 

for fear; 
But when I looked, Paris had raised his 

arm, 185 

And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone wdthin the bower; 
And from that time to this I am alone. 
And I shall be alone until I die. 190 

"Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife? am I not fair? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
When I passed by, a wild and wanton 

pard,^ _ 19s 

Eyed like the evening star, with playful 

tail 
Crouched fawning in the weed. Most 

loving is she? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my 

arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips 

pressed 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling 

dew 200 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois ! 

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 
My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy 
ledge 205 

High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 

' leopard. 



Fostered the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark 

morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I 
sat 210 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep through them; never see them over- 
laid 
With narrow moonht slips of silver cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the tremb- 
ling stars. 215 

"0 mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruined folds. 
Among the fragments timibled from the ^ 

glens. 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 220 
Into the fair Pele'ian banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board. 
And bred this change; that I might speak 

my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and 

men. 225 

"0 mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand 

times, 
In this green valley, under this green hill. 
Even on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone? 
Sealed it %vith kisses? watered it with 

tears? 230 

happy tears, and how unlike to these! 
O happy heaven, how canst thou see my 

face? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my 

weight? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating 

cloud, 234 

There are enough unhappy on this earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live; 

1 pray thee, pass before my Ught of life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weigh est heavy on the heart within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids; let me die. 240 

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and 

more. 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 



574 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Dead sounds at night come from the in- 
most hills, 245 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born. Her child! — a shudder 

comes 
Across me: never child be born of me 250 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! 

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, earth. I will not die alone. 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 256 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come 

forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 260 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I know 
That, whereso'er I am by night and day, 
All earth and air seem only burning fire." 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward 

the land, 
"This mounting wave will roll us shore- 
ward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did 

swoon, 5 

Breathing like one that hath a weary 

dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the 

moon; 
And, like a downward smoke, the slender 

stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall 

did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward 
smoke, 10 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 

And some through w^avering lights and 
shadows broke. 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land; far off, three moun- 
tain-tops, 15 



Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunset-flushed; and, dewed with 

showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 

woven copse. 

The charmed sunset lingered low adown 
In the red West; through mountain clefts 

the dale 20 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
Bordered with palm, and many a winding 

vale 
And meadow, set with slender galingale;^ 
A land where all things always seemed 

the same! 
And round about the keel with faces 

pale, ^ 25 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters 

came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted 

stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they 

gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them .30 
And taste, to him the gushing of the 

wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and 

rave 
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake. 
His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave; 
And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart 

did make. 36 

They sat them down upon the yellow 

sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave; but ever- 
more 40 
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the 

oar. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren 

foam. 
Then some one said, "We will return no 

more;" 
And all at once they sang, "Our island 

home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no 

longer roam." 45 

1 reeds, sedge. 



TENNYSON 



575 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

I read, before my eyelids dropped their 
shade, 
"The Legend of Good Women," long 
ago 
Sung by the morning-star of song, who 
made 
His music heard below; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath 5 

Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 

With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 

Held me above the subject, as strong 

gales lo 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, though 

my heart. 

Brimful of those wild tales. 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In 
every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 

The downward slope to death. i6 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 

Peopled the hollow dark, like burning 

stars. 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and 

wrong. 

And trumpets blown for wars; 20 

And clattering flints battered with clang- 
ing hoofs; 
And I saw crowds in columned sanc- 
tuaries; 
And forms that passed at windows and on 
roofs 
Of marble palaces; 

Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall 25 
Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 

Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; 
Lances in ambush set; 

And high shrine-doors burst through with 
heated blasts 
That run before the fluttering tongues 
of fire; s° 

White surf \\dnd-scattered over sails and 
masts, 
And ever climbing higher; 



Squadrons and squares of men in brazen 
plates. 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers 
woes. 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron 
grates, 35 

And hushed seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to 

land 

Bluster the winds and tides the self-same 

way. 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand 

Torn from the fringe of spray. 40 

I started once, or seemed to start in pain, 
Resolved on noble things, and strove to 
speak. 
As when a great thought strikes along the 
brain. 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 45 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 

That bore a lady from a leaguered town; 
And then, I know not how, 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing 
thought 
Streamed onward, lost their edges, and 
did creep 
Rolled on each other, rounded, smoothed, 
and brought 51 

Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wandered far 
In an old wood: fresh- washed in coolest 
dew 

The maiden splendors of the morning star 55 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and 

lean 

Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with 

clearest green, 

New from its silken sheath. 60 

The dim red morn had died, her journey 
done. 
And with dead lips smiled at the twi- 
light plain, 
Half-fallen across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 



576 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



There was no motion in the dumb dead 
air, ^ 65 

Not any song of bird or sound of rill; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 

Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine 
turned 
Their humid arms festooning tree to 
tree, 70 

And at the root through lush green grasses 
burned 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I 
knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid 
dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drenched in dew, 75 

Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green. 
Poured back into my empty soul and 
frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 80 

And from within me a clear undertone 
Thrilled through mine ears in that un- 
blissful clime, 
"Pass freely through: the wood is all thine 
own, 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call, 85 
Stiller than chiselled marble, standing 
there ; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with sur- 
prise 
Froze my swift speech: she, turning on 
my face 90 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place: 

"I had great beauty: ask thou not my 

name: 

No one can be more wise than destiny. 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er 

I came 95 

I brought calamity," 



"No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly died," 

I answered free; and turning I appealed 
To one that stood beside. 100 

But she, with sick and scornful looks 
averse. 
To her full height her stately stature 
draws; 
" My youth," she said, "was blasted with 
a curse: 
This woman was the cause. 

"I was cut off from hope in that sad 

place 105 

Which men called Aulis in those iron 

years ; 

My father held his hand upon his face; 

I, blinded with my tears, 

"Still strove to speak: my voice was thick 
with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry no 
The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish 
eyes. 
Waiting to see me die. 

"The high masts flickered as they lay 
afloat; 
The crowds, the temples, wavered, and 
the shore; 
The bright death quivered at the victim's 
throat — 115 

Touched — and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward brow: 

"I would the white cold heavy-plunging 

foam. 

Whirled by the wind, had rolled me deep 

below, 

Then when I left my home." 120 

Her slow full words sank through the 
silence drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea: 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come 
here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise,i2s 
One sitting on a crimson scarf unrolled; 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold 
black eyes. 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 



TENNYSON 



577 



She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began: 

"I governed men by change, and so I 

swayed 130 

All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a 

man. 

Once, like the moon, I made 

"The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humor ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood : 135 
That makes my only woe. 

"Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not 
bend 
One will; nor tame and tutor with mine 
eye 
That dull, cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, 
friend, 
Where is Mark Antony? 140 

"The man, my lover, with whom I rode 
sublime 
On Fortune's neck; we sat as God by 
God; 
The Nilus would have Hsen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

"We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and 
lit 145 

Lamps which out-burned Canopus. Oh, 
my life 
In Egypt! Oh, the dalliance and the wit, 
The flattery and the strife, 

"And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's 
alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 1 50 
My mailed Bacchus leaped into my arms. 

Contented there to die! 

"And there he died: and when I heard my 
name 
Sighed forth with life, I would not brook 
my fear 
Of the other; with a worm I balked his 
fame. 155 

What else was left? look here!" — 

With that she tore her robe apart, and 

half 

The polished argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a 

laugh, 

Showing the aspic's bite. — 160 



" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 

A name for ever! — lying robed and crowned 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 

Struck by all passion, did fall down and 

glance 166 

From tone to tone, and glided through 

all change 

Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for de- 
light; 
Because with sudden motion from the 
ground 1 70 

She raised her piercing orbs, and filled 
with light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipped his keenest 

darts : 

As once they drew into two burning rings 

All beams of Love, melting the mighty 

hearts 175 

Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
A noise of some one coming through the 
lawn, 

And singing clearer than the crested bird 
That claps his wings at dawn: 180 

"The torrent brooks of hallowed Israel 
From craggy hollows pouring, late and 
soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling through 
the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

"The balmy moon of blessed Israel 185 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
beams divine; 
All night the splintered crags that wall 
the dell 
With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sunshine 
laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, through 
the door iqo 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 



57S 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Within, and anthem sung, is charmed and 
tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, when 
that flow 
Of music left the Hps of her that died 195 
To save her father's vow; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 
A maiden pure; as when she went along 

From Mizpah's towered gate with wel- 
come light, 
With timbrel and with song. 200 

My words leapt forth: "Heaven heads the 
count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She rendered 
answer high: 
"Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 

"Single I grew, like some green plant, 
whose root 205 

Creeps to the garden water-pipes be- 
neath, 
Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to 
fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

" My God, my land, my father — these did 
move 
Me from my bliss of Hfe, that Nature 
gave, 210 

Lowered softly with a threefold cord of 
love 
Down to a silent grave. 

"And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew 

boy 

Shall smile away my maiden blame 

among 

The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all joy. 

Leaving the dance and song, 216 

"Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 
Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 220 

"The light white cloud swam over us. 
Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 
We saw the large white stars rise one by 
one, 
Or, from the darkened glen, 



"Saw God divide the night with flying 
flame, 225 

And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief be- 
came 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

"When the next moon was rolled into the 
sky. 
Strength came to me that equalled my 
desire. 230 

How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire! 

"It comforts me in this one thought to 
dwell. 
That I subdued me to my father's 
wiU; 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, 235 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

"Moreover it is written that my race 
Hewed Ammon, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glowed, as I looked at her. 240 

She locked her lips: she left me where I 
stood: 
"Glory to God," she sang, and- passed 
afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage^ of the 
wood. 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 245 

As one that from a casement leans his 
head. 
When midnight bells cease ringing sud- 
denly. 
And the old year is dead. 

"Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of care, 

Murmured beside me. "Turn and look 

on me: 250 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, 
If what. I was I be. 

"Would I had been some maiden coarse 
and poor! 

me, that I should ever see the light! 
Those dragon eyes of angered Eleanor 255 

Do hunt me, day and night," 

1 undergrowth. 



TENNYSON 



579 



She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and 
trust; 
To whom the Egyptian: "Oh, you 
tamely died! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, 
and thrust 
The dagger through her side." 260 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's 
creeping beams, 
Stolen to my brain, dissolved the 
mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my 
dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broadened on the borders of the 
dark 265 

Ere I saw her who clasped in her last 
trance 
Her murdered father's head, or Joan of 
Arc, 
A light of ancient France; 

Or her who knew that Love can vanquish 
Death, 
Who kneeling with one arm about her 
king, ^ 270 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden 

ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from 

sleep 275 

To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what 

dull pain 
Compassed, how eagerly I sought to 

strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams 



agam ! 
But no two dreams are like. 



280 



As when a soul laments, which hath been 
blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past 
years, 
In yearnings that can never be expressed 
By signs or groans or tears; 



Because all words, though culled with 
choicest art, 285 

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet. 
Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 

Faints, faded by its heat. 



YOU ASK ME, WHY, THOUGH ILL 
AT EASE 

You ask me, why, though ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist. 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas. 

It is the land that freemen till, 5 

That sober-suited Freedom chose, 
The land, where girt with friends or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 10 

Where Freedom slowly broadens down 

From precedent to precedent; 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 
But, by degrees to fullness wrought. 
The strength of some diffusive thought 15 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime. 

And individual freedom mute, 20 

Though power should make from land to 
land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Though every channel of the State 

Should fill and choke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 25 
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky. 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



MORTE D 'ARTHUR 

So all day long the noise of battle rolled 
Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord, 



58o 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



King Arthur: then, because his wound 
was deep, S 

The bold Sir Bedivere upHfted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross. 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one n 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere: 
''The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such 
a sleep i6 

They sleep — the men I loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds. 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 20 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Though Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, 
be; 24 

I am so deeply smitten through the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride; for thou remember- 

est how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an 

arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 30 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- 
ful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row^ed 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known. 35 
But now delay not; take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere;^ 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly^ bring 
me word." 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 
thus, 40 

Aidless, alone, and smitten through the 

helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 

1 sea, lake. ^ quickly. 



Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee 

word." 
So saying, from the ruined shrine he 

stepped 45 

And in the moon athwart the place of 

tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 

men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 

stepping down 
By zigzag paths and juts of pointed rock,5o 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
There drew he forth the brand Ex- 
calibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran 

forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the 

hilt: _ _ 55 

For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 

stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift 

mind, 60 

In act to throw; but at the last it seemed 
Better to leave Excalibur concealed 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

King. _ _ 65 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 

"Hast thou performed my mission which I 

gave? 
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast 

heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 

" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 70 

And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and 

pale: 
"Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy 

name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseemed 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight; 75 
For surer sign had followed, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 



TENNYSON 



581 



As thou art lief ^ and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me 

word." 81 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 

Across the ridge, and paced beside the 

mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 85 
How curiously and strangely chased, he 

smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud: 

"And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the 

earth, go 

Which might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were 

done? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to dis- 
obey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 96 
The King is sick, and knows not what he 

does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt? but were this 

kept, 100 

Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 

kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms, 
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake; 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 

deeps 105 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the after- 
time 
To all the people, winning reverence; 
But now much honor and much fame were 

lost." 
So spake he, clouded with his own con- 
ceit, no 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 

King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily : 

' loved. 



"What is it thou hast seen, or what hast 

heard?" 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere: 115 
"I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, much in 

wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted I Woe is me! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 121 

Laid widowed of the power in his eye 
That bowed the will. I see thee what thou 

art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the ofi&ces of all, 125 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious 

hilt; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence; 130 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then qmckjy rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 

And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutched the 

sword, _ 13s 

And strongly wheeled and threw it. The 

great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the 

moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirled 

in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of ^\^nter 

shock 140 

By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur; 
But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and bran- 
dished him 145 
Three times, and drew him under in the 

mere. 
And lightly went the other to the king. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath: 
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out; what is it thou hast heard, or 

seen?" 150 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 



582 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the 
gems 

Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 

Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 

Not though I live three lives of mortal 
' men, 155 

So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 

Then with both hands I flung him, wheel- 
ing him; 

But when I looked again, behold an arm. 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- 
ful, 

That caught him by the hilt, and bran- 
dished him 160 

Three times, and drew him under in the 
mere." 
And answer made King Arthur, breath- 
ing hard: 

"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were 
gone. 

Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 
weight. 

And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 165 

My wound hath taken cold, and I shall 
die." 
So saying, from the pavement he half 
rose. 

Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 

And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 

As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 1 70 

Remorsefully regarded through his tears. 

And would have spoken, but he found not 
words. 

Then took with care, and kneeling on one 
knee, 

O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 
hands, 

And rising bore him through the place of 
tombs. 175 

But, as he walked. King Arthur panted 
hard, 

Like one that feels a nightmare on his 
bed 

When all the house is mute. So sighed the 
king. 

Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 
"Quick, quick! 

I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 180 

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to 
ridge. 

Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he 
walked. 

Larger than human on the frozen hills. 

He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 



Before. His own thought drove him, like 

a goad. 185 

Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 
The bare black cHff clanged round him, as 

he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 190 

And on a sudden, lol the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 
Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them; and descending they were 

ware 195 

That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — 

by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and 

from them rose 
A cry that shivered to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 200 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 
Then murmured Arthur, "Place me in 

the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those 

three Queens 205 

Put forth their hands, and took the King, 

and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shattered casque, and 

chafed his hands. 
And called him by his name, complaining 

loud, 210 

And dropping bitter tears against his 

brow 
Striped with dark blood; for all his face 

was white 
And colorless, and like the withered moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east; 
And all his greaves^ and cuisses" dashed 

with drops 215 

• Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 

1 leg guards. - thigh guards 



TENNYSON 



583 



High from the dais-throne — were parched 

with dust; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mixed with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 220 

So like a shattered column lay the King; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in 

rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot through the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 225 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: 

"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 

Where shall I hide my forehead and my 

eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 230 

And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the light 

that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dis- 
solved 
Which was an image of the mighty world; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 236 
And the days darken roimd me, and the 

years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 
And slowly answered Arthur from the 

barge: 
"The old order changeth, yielding place 

to new, 240 

And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have 

done 
May He within Himself make pure! but 

thou, 245 

If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul . More things are wrought 

by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, 

let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 
For what are men better than sheep or 

goats 250 

That nourish a blind life within the brain, 



If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call 

them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of 
God. 255 

But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
For all my mind is clouded with a doubt — 
To the island- valley of Avilion; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies 261 
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard- 
lawns 
And bowery hollows crowned with summer 

sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 
wound." 
So said he, and the barge with oar and 
sail 265 

Moved from the brink, Hke some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the 

flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bed- 
ivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Looked one black dot against the verge of 
dawn, 271 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 



ULYSSES 

It little profits that an idle king, 
By this still hearth, among these barren 

crags, 
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know 

not me. 5 

I cannot rest from travel ; I will drink 
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed 
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with 

those 
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and 

when 
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name; 
For always roaming with a hungr^^ heart 12 
Much have I seen and known, — cities of 

men. 



584 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And manners, climates, councils, govern- 
ments, 
Myself not least, but honored of them 

all,— _ 15 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers. 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough. 
Gleams that imtravelled world, whose 

margin fades 20 

Forever and forever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! 
As though to breathe were hf e ! Life piled 

on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 25 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself. 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 30 
To follow knowledge like a sinking star. 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 35 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and through soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I 

mine. 
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her 

sail; 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My 

mariners, 45 

Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and 

thought with me, — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and op- 
posed 
Free hearts, free foreheads,— you and I are 

old; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. 50 
Death closes all ; but something ere the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; 



The long day wanes; the slow moon 

climbs; the deep 55 

Moans round with many voices. Come, 

my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows; for my purpose 

holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down; 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we 

knew. 
Though much is taken, much abides; and 

though 65 

We are not now that strength which in old 

days 
Moved earth and heaven; that which we 

are, we are; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in 

will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as 

yet 'tis early morn: 
Leave me here, and when you want me, 

sound upon the bugle-horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, 

the curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying 

over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance over- 
looks the sandy tracts, 5 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into 
cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, 

ere I went to rest. 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly 

to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising 

through the mellow shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in 

a silver braid. 10 



TENNYSON 



585 



Here about the beach I wandered, nourish- 
ing a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and the 
long result of time; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruit- 
ful land reposed; 

When I clung to all the present for the 
promise that it closed; 

When I dipped into the future far as 
human eye could see; 15 

Saw the vision of the world, and all the 
wonder that would be. — 

In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon 
the robin's breast; 

In the spring the wanton lapwing gets him- 
self another crest; 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the 

burnished dove; 
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly 

turns to thoughts of love. 20 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than 
should be for one so young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with a 
mute observance hung. 

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and 

speak the truth to me. 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my 

being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a 
color and a light, 25 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the 
northern night. 

And she turned — her bosom shaken with 

a sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark 

of hazel eyes — 

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing 
they should do me wrong;" 

Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" 
weeping, "I have loved thee long." 30 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned 

it in his glowing hands; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself 

in golden sands. 



Love took up the harp of Life, and smote 
on all the chords with might; 

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, 
passed in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we 
hear the copses ring, 35 

And her whisper thronged my pulses with 
the fulness of the spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we 

watch the stately ships. 
And our spirits rushed together at the 

touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! my Amy, 

mine no more! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland! the 

barren, barren shore! 40 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than 

all songs have sung. 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to 

a shrewish tongue! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? having 
known me — to decline 

On a range of lower feelings and a nar- 
rower heart than mine! 

Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his 
level day by day, 45 

What is fine within thee growing coarse 
to sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is; thou art 

mated with a clown. 
And the grossness of his nature will have 

weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall 

have spent its novel force. 
Something better than his dog, a little 

dearer than his horse. 50 

What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not 

they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, take 

his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain 

is overwrought; 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch 

him with thy lighter thought. 



S86 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



He will answer to the purpose, easy things 
to understand — 55 

Better thou wert dead before me, though 
I slew thee with my hand! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from 

the heart's disgrace. 
Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in 

a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against 

the strength of youth! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from 

the living truth! 60 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from 

honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened 

forehead of the fool! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — 
hadst thou less unworthy proved — 

Would to God — for I had loved thee more 
than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which 
bears but bitter fruit? 65 

I will pluck it from my bosom, though my 
heart be at the root. 

Never, though my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 

As the many-wintered crow that leads the 
clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the records 

of the mind? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, 

as I knew her, kind? 70 

I remember one that perished; sweetly 

did she speak and move; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look 

at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her 

for the love she bore? 
No — she never loved me truly ; love is love 

for evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorned of devils ! this is 
truth the poet sings, 75 

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remem- 
bering happier things. 



Drug . thy memories, lest thou learn it, 
lest thy heart be put to proof. 

In the dead unhappy night, and when the 
rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou 

art staring at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and 

the shadows rise and fall. 80 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, point- 
ing to his drunken sleep. 

To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the 
tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whis- 
pered by the phantom years. 

And a song from out the distance in the 
ringing of thine ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient 
kindness on thy pain. 85 

Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get 
thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a 

tender voice will cry. 
'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain 

thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest 

rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me 

from the mother's breast. 90 

Oh, the child too clothes the father with a 

dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his; it will be 

worthy of the two. 

Oh, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy 

petty part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching 

down a daughter's heart. 

"They were dangerous guides, the feelings 
— she herself was not exempt — 95 

Truly, she herself had suffered" — Perish 
in thy self-contempt! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! where- 
fore should I care? 

I myself must mix with action, lest I wither 
by despair. 



TENNYSON 



587 



What is that which I should turn to, Hght- 

ing upon days Uke these? 
Every door is barred with gold, and opens 

but to golden keys. 100 

Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the 

markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy; what is that 

which I should do? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the 

foeman's ground. 
When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and 

the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the 
hurt that Honor feels, 105 

And the nations do but murmur, snarling 
at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn 

that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou 

wondrous Mother- Age I 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I 

felt before the strife. 
When I heard my days before me, and the 

tumult of my life; no 

Yearning for the large excitement that the 

coming years would yield. 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he 

leaves his father's field. 

And at night along the dusky highway 

near and nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring 

like a dreary dawn; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone 
before him then, 115 

Underneath the light he looks at, in among 
the throngs of men; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 

reaping something new; 
That which they have done but earnest of 

the things that they shall do. 

For I dipped into the future, far as human 

eye could see, 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the 

wonder that would be; 120 



Saw the heavens fill with commerce, ar- 
gosies of magic sails. 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping 
down with costly bales; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and 

there rained a ghastly dew 
From the nation's airy navies grappling 

in the central blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the 
southwind rushing warm, 125 

With the standards of the peoples plung- 
ing through the thunder-storm; 

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, 
and the battle-flags were furled 

In the Parliament of man, the Federation 
of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall 
hold a fretful realm in awe. 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapped 
in universal law. 130 

So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping 

through me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left 

me with the jaundiced eye; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things 
here are out of joint. 

Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creep- 
ing on from point to point; 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a Hon, 
creeping nigher, 135 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a 
slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not through the ages one in- 
creasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are \ndened 
with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest 

of his youthful joys, 
Though the deep heart of existence beat 

for ever like a boy's? 140 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and 

I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world 

is more and more. 



588 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and 

he bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward 

the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sound- 
ing on the bugle-horn, 145 

They to whom my foolish passion were a 
target for their scorn. 



to harp on 



Shall it not be scorn to me 
such a mouldered string? 

I am shamed through all my nature 
have loved so slight a thing. 



to 



Weakness to be wroth with weakness! 

woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions 

bounded in a shallower brain: 150 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy pas- 
sions, matched with mine. 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight and as 
water unto wine — 

Here, at least, where nature sickens, noth- 
ing. Ah, for some retreat 

Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my 
life began to beat, 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my 
father evil-starred; — 155 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a self- 
ish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to 
wander far away, 

On from island unto island at the gate- 
ways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow 

moons and happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in 

cluster, knots of Paradise. 160 

Never comes the trader, never floats an 

European flag, 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, 

swings the trailer from the crag; 

Droops the heavy -blossomed bower, hangs 

the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple 

spheres of sea. 



There methinks would be enjoyment more 
than in this march of mind, 165 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramped no longer shall 
have scope and breathing space; 

I will take some savage woman, she shall 
rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall 

dive, and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl 

their lances in the sun; 170 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap 
the rainbows of the brooks. 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over 
miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I 

know my words are wild. 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than 

the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of 
our glorious gains, 175 

Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a 
beast with lower pains! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me 

were sun or clime ! 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost 

files of tim.e — 

I that rather held it better men should 

perish one by one. 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like 

Joshua's moon in Ajalon! 180 

Not in vain the distance beacons. For- 
ward, forward let us range, 

Let the great world spin for ever down 
the ringing grooves of change. 

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep 

into the younger day; 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 

Cathay. 

Mother- Age, — for mine I knew not, — help 
me as when life begun; 185 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash 
the lightnings, weigh the sun. 



TENNYSON 



589 



Oh, I see the crescent promise of my spirit 

hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well through 

all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell 

to Locksley Hall! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now 

for me the roof-tree fall. 190 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blacken- 
ing over heath and holt. 

Cramming all the blast before it, in its 
breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or 
hail, or fire or snow; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring sea- 
ward, and I go. 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

well for the fisherman's boy, 5 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay I 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill; 10 

But O for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 15 

Will never come back to me. 

SONGS from THE PRINCESS 

BUGLE SONG 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 5 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dy- 
ing, dying. 



O, hark, 0, hear! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going! 

0, sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 10 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 1 5 

And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they 

mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine 

despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no 

more. 5 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a 
sail. 

That brings our friends up from the under- 
world, 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 

That sinks with all we love below the 
verge; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 
more. 10 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half -awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no 

more. 15 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 

feigned 

On lips that are for others; deep as love. 

Deep as first love, and wild -with all regret; 

O Death in Life, the days that are no 

more! 20 



59° 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WAR- 
RIOR DEAD 

Home they brought her warrior dead; 

She nor swooned nor uttered cry: 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

"She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, s 
Called him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 

Lightly to the warrior stepped, lo 

Took the face-cloth from the face; 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears — 15 
"Sweet my child, I live for thee." 



IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen 

face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 

Believing where we cannot prove; 



thy 



Thine are these orbs of light and shade; 5 
Thou madest Life in man and brute; 
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot 

Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust; 

Thou madest man, he knows not why, 10 
He thinks he was not made to die; 

And thou hast made him: thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 

The highest, hoHest manhood, thou. 
Our wills are ours, we know not how; 15 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day; 

They have their day and cease to be; 

They are but broken lights of thee. 
And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 20 



We have but faith: we cannot know; 

For knowledge is of things we see; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness: let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 25 
But more of reverence in us dwell; 
That mind and soul, according well. 

May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight; 
We mock thee when we do not fear: 30 
But help thy foolish ones to bear; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seemed my sin in me; 

What seemed my worth since I began ; 

For merit lives from man to man, 35 
And not from man, Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed. 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 40 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth; 
Forgive them where they fail in 
truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

LXXXVI 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 5 
Through all the dewy tasselled wood, 
And shadowing down the horned 
flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 

The full new life that feeds thy breath i o 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and 
Death, 

III brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 15 

A hundred spirits whisper "Peace." 



TENNYSON 



591 



LXXXVIII 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 
Rings Eden through the budded quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet. 

Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ 5 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy ; 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings; 10 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

cvi 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 5 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more; 10 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor; 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly djdng cause. 

And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 15 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 20 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
The civic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 25 
Ring out the narro^\'i^g lust of gold; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 



Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 30 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

cxv 

Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now burgeons^ every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares," and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 5 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drowned in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 10 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 15 

To build and brood; that live their lives 

From land to land; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too, and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 20 

cxxvi 

Love is and was my lord and king, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 

Which every hour the couriers bring. 

Love is and was my king and lord, 5 

And will be, though as yet I keep 
Within the court on earth, and sleep 

Encompassed by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place, 10 
And whispers to the worlds of space. 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

cxxxi 

li\dng will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suff'er shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 

Flow through our deeds and make them 
pure, 

1 blossoms. ^ square fields enclosed by hedges. 



592 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



That we may lift from out of dust 5 

A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquered years 

To one that with us w^orks, and trust, 

With faith that comes of self-control. 
The truths that never can be proved 10 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



THE EAGLE 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ringed with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 5 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



From MAUD 

XVIII 

I have led her home, my love, my only 

friend. 
There is none like her, none. 
And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
And sweetly, on and on 
Calming itself to the long-wished-for end, 5 
Full to the banks, close on the promised 

good. 

None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' patter- 
ing talk 

Seemed her light foot along the garden 
walk, 

And shook my heart to think she comes 
once more; 10 

But even then I heard her close the door; 

The gates of Heaven are closed, and she 
is gone. 

There is none like her, none, 

Nor will be when our summers have de- 
ceased. 

0, art thou sighing for Lebanon 15 

In the long breeze that streams to thy 
delicious East, 

Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, though thy limbs have here 
increased, 



Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 

And looking to the South, and fed 20 

With honeyed rain and delicate air. 

And haunted by the starry head 

Of her whose gentle will has changed my 

fate, 
And made my life a perfumed altar- 
flame, 
And over whom thy darkness must have 
spread 25 

With such delight as theirs of old, thy 

great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 
Shadowing the snow-limbed Eve from 
whom she came? 

Here will I lie, while these long branches 

sway, 
And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 31 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seemed far better to be born 
To labor and the mattock-hardened hand 
Than nursed at ease and brought to under- 
stand 35 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 40 

But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 
The countercharm of space and hollow sky. 
And do accept my madness, and would 

die 
To save from some slight shame one simple 

girl?— 45 

Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may 

give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to 

live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 50 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 

Not die; but live a life of truest breath. 
And teach true life to fight with mortal 
wrongs. 



TENNYSON 



593 



O, why should Love, like men in drinking 

songs, 55 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of 

death? 
Make answer, Maud my bliss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long loving 

kiss; 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? 
"The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself 

more dear." 6i 

Is that enchanted moan only the swell 

Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? 

And hark the clock within, the silver knell 

Of twelve sweet hours that passed in bridal 
white, 65 

And died to live, long as my pulses play; 

But now by this my love has closed her 
sight, 

And given false death her hand, and stolen 
away 

To dreamful wastes where footless fancies 
dwell 

Among the fragments of the golden day. 

May nothing there her maiden grace af- 
fright! 71 

Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy 
spell. 

My bride to be, my evermore delight, 

My own heart's heart, my ownest own, 
farewell; 

It is but for a little space I go, 75 

And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 

Beat to the noiseless music of the night! 

Has our whole earth gone nearer to the 
glow 

Of your soft splendors that you look so 
bright? 

/ have climbed nearer out of lonely Hell. 

Beat, happy stars, timing with things be- 
low, 81 

Beat with my heart more blest than heart 
can tell. 

Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 

That seems to draw — but it shall not be 
so; 

Let all be well, be well. 

XXII 

Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown; 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone; 



85 



And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 5 

And the musk of the rose is blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light that she 
loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 10 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casement jessamine 
stirred 15 

To the dancers dancing in tune; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, "There is but one. 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 20 
When will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 25 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 
For one that will never be thine? 30 

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the 
rose, 
"For ever and ever, mine." 

And the soul of the rose went into my 
blood. 
As the music clashed in the hall; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 35 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to 
the wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than all; 

From the meadow your walks have left 
so sweet 

That whenever a March- wind sighs 40 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, ' 

To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the vallevs of Paradise. 



594 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



The slender acacia would not shake 45 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake, 

Knowing your promise to me; • 50 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done. 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 55 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate, 60 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 

She is coming, my life, my fate. 
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is 
near;" 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late; " 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;" 65 

And the lily whispers, "I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed; 70 

My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead. 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE 

Half a league, half a league. 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns!" he said. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not though the soldier knew 
Some one had blundered. 



IS 



Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die. 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right through the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not. 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well 45 
Came through the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 50 

O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 55 

NORTHERN FARMER 

OLD STYLE 

Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin'^ 

'ere aloan? 
Noorse? thourt nowt o' a noorse; whoy, 

Doctor's abean an' agoan; 

' lying. 



25 



30 



35 



40 



TENNYSON 



595 



Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale, but I 

beant a fool; 
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to 

break my rule. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says 

what's nawways true; 5 

Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things 

that a do. 
I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I 

bean ere. 
An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight 

for foorty year. 

Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 

ere o' my bed. 
"The Amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen/ 

my friend," a said, lo 

An' a towd ma my sins, an' 's toithe were 

due, an' I gied it in hond; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy 

the lond. 

Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa 

mooch to larn. 
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy 

Marris's bame.^ 
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire 

an' choorch an' staate, 15 

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin 

the raate.^ 

An' I hallus coom'd to's choorch afoor 

moy Sally wur dead. 
An' 'eard 'um a bummin' awaay loike a 

buzzard-clock'* ower my 'ead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I 

thowt a 'ad summut to saay, 
All' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said, 

an' I coom'd awaay. 20 

Bessy Marris's barne! tha knaws she laaid 

it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad 

un, shea. 
'Siver,^ I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha 

mun understond; 
I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy 

the lond. 

But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a says 
it easy an' freea: 25 

"The Amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen, 
my friend," says 'ea. 

' tax. 



' himself. 
• cockchafer. 



- bairn, child. 
^ howsoever. 



I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun 

said it in 'aaste; 
But 'e reaads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 

'a stubb'd^ Thumaby waaste. 

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass? naw, 

naw, tha was not born then; 
Theer wur a boggle'^ in it, I often 'eard 

'um mysen; 30 

Moast loike a butter-bump,^ fur I 'eard 

'um about an' about. 
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' 

raaved^ an' rembled^° 'um out. 

Reaper's it wur; fo' they fun 'um theer 

a-laaid of 'is faace 
Down i' the woild 'enemies^^ afoor I 

coom'd to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner^^ 'ed shot 

'um as dead as a naail. 35 

Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize^^ — 

but git ma my aale. 

Dubbut loook at the waaste; theer 

warn't not feead for a cow; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz,^"* an' 

loook at it now — 
Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now 

theer's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor yows^'^ upon it, an' some on it 

down i' seead. 40 

Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to 

'a stubb'd it at fall. 
Done it ta-year^^ I mean'd, an' runn'd 

plow thrufif it an' all. 
If Godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut 

let ma aloan, — 
Mea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' 

Squoire's, an lond o' my oan. 

Do Godamoighty knaw what a's doing a- 

taakin' o' mea? 45 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an yonder 

a pea; 
An' Squoire u'll be sa mad an' all — a' dear, 

a' dear! 
And I 'a managed for Squoire coom 

Michaelmas thutty year. 



6 cleared. 
' tore up. 


' bogle, ghost. 


s bittern. 
"• routed out. 


" anemones. 
" the assizes. 
'5 ewes. 




'= one or the other 
'* furze. 
"5 this year. 



596 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 

'aapoth^ o' sense, 
Or a mowt a' taaen young Robins — a 

niver mended a fence; 50 

But Godamoighty a moost taake mea an' 

taake ma now, 
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby 

hoalms^ to plow! 

Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas 

ma a passin' boy. 
Says to thessen, naw doubt, "What a man 

a bea sewerloy!" 
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire 

sin' fust a coom'd to the 'All; 55 

I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done 

moy duty boy hall. 

Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 

'ull 'a to wroite, 
For whoa's to howd the lond ater mea thot 

muddles^ ma quoit; 
Sartin-sewer I bea thot a weant niver give 

it to Joanes, 
Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver 

rembles the stoans. 60 

But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap 

wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin'"* an' maazin'^ the blessed fealds 

wi' the Divil's oan team. 
Sin' I mun doy I mim doy, thaw loife 

they says is sweet. 
But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I 

couldn abear to see it. 

What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn 

bring ma the aale? 65 

Doctor's a 'toattler,^ lass, an a's hallus i' 

the owd taale; 
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws 

naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my aale, I tell tha, an' if I mun 

doy I mun doy. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, 

the hills and the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him 

who reigns? 



' halfpennyworth. 
■* buzzing. 



' river-flats. 
* amazing. 



' perplexes. 

" a "tee-totaller." 



Is not the Vision He, though He be not 

that which He seems? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do 

we not live in dreams? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of 
body and limb, 5 

Are they not sign and symbol of thy 
division from Him? 

Dark is the world to thee; thyself art 

the reason why; 
For is He not all but thou, that hast 

power to feel "I am I"? 

Glory about thee, without thee; and thou 

fulfillest thy doom, 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled 

splendor and gloom. 10 

Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and 
Spirit with Spirit can meet — 

Closer is He than breathing, and nearer 
than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise; Soul, and let 

us rejoice. 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is 

yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some: no God at all, says 
the fool; 15 

For all we have power to see is a straight 
staff bent in a pool; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the 

eye of man cannot see; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — 

were it not He? 



FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my 

hand. 
Little flower — ^but if I could understand 
What you are, root and all, and all in 

all, 5 

I should know what God and man is. 



TENNYSON 



597 



THE REVENGE 

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 
I 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Gren- 

ville lay, 
And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came 

flying from far away: 
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have 

sighted fifty- three!" 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: " 'Fore 

God, I am no coward; 
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships 

are out of gear, 5 

And the half my men are sick. I must 

fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line; can we fight 

with fifty-three?" 

II 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I 
know you are no coward ; 

You fly them for a moment to fight with 
them again. 

But I've ninety men and more that are 
lying sick ashore. lo 

I should count myself the coward if I left 
them, my Lord Howard, 

To these Inquisition dogs and the devil- 
doms of Spain." 

Ill 

So Lord Howard passed away with five 
ships of war that day, 

Till he melted like a cloud in the silent 
summer heaven ; 

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick 
men from the land 15 

Very carefully and slow, 

Men of Bideford in Devon, 

And we laid them on the ballast down be- 
low: 

For we brought them all aboard. 

And they blessed him in their pain, that 
they were not left to Spain, 20 

To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the 
glory of the Lord. 

IV 

He had only a hundred seamen to work 

the ship and to fight, 
And he sailed away from Flores till the 

Spaniard came in sight. 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the 

weather bow. 



" Shall we fight or shall we fly? 25 

Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 

For to fight is but to die! 

There'll be little of us left by the time 
this sun be set." 

And Sir Richard said again: "We be all 
good English men. 

Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the chil- 
dren of the devil, 30 

For I never turned my back upon Don or 
devil yet." 



Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we 

roared a hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the 

heart of the foe. 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and 

her ninety sick below; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half 

to the left were seen, 35 

And the little Revenge ran on through the 

long sea-lane between. 

VI 

Thousands of their soldiers looked down 

from their decks and laughed. 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at 

the mad little craft 
Running on and on, till delayed 
By their mountain-like San Philip that, 

of fifteen hundred tons, 40 

And up-shadowing high above us with her 

yawning tiers of guns. 
Took the breath from our sails, and we 

stayed. 

VII 

And while now the great San Philip hung 

above us like a cloud 
Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
Long and loud, 45 

Four galleons drew away 
From the Spanish fleet that day, 
And two upon the larboard and two upon 

the starboard lay, 
And the battle-thunder broke from them 

all. 



VIII 



But anon the great San Philip, she be- 
thought herself and went, 50 

Having that within her womb that had 
left her ill content; 



598 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And the rest they came aboard us, and 
they fought us hand to hand, 

For a dozen times they came with their 
pikes and musqueteers. 

And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a 
dog that shakes his ears 54 

When he leaps from the water to the land. 

IX 

And the sun went down, and the stars 
came out far over the summer sea, 

But never a moment ceased the fight of 
the one and the fifty-three. 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their 
high-built galleons came. 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, with 
her battle- thunder and flame: 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew 
back with her dead and her shame. 60 

For some were sunk and many were shat- 
tered, and so could fight no more — 

God of battles, was ever a battle like this 
in the world before? 



For he said, "Fight on! fight on!" 
Though his vessel was all but a wreck; 
And it chanced that, when half of the short 

summer night was gone, 65 

With a grisly wound to be dressed he had 

left the deck. 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing 

it suddenly dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in the 

side and the head, 
And he said, "Fight on! fight on!" 

XI 

And the night went down, and the sun 

smiled out far over the summer sea, 70 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides 

lay round us all in a ring; 
But they dared not touch us again, for 

they feared that we still could sting. 
So they watched what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain. 
But in perilous plight were we, 75 

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 

slain, 
And half of the rest of us maimed for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the 

desperate strife: 
And the sick men down in the hold were 

most of them stark and cold, 



And the pikes were all broken or bent, 

and the powder was all of it spent; 80 
And the masts and the rigging were lying 

over the side; 
But Sir Richard cried in his Enghsh 

pride: 
"We have fought such a fight for a day 

and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men I 85 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when? 
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink 

her, split her in twain! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the 

hands of Spain!" 90 

XII 

And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the 

seamen made reply: 
"We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if 

we yield, to let us go; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike 

another blow." 95 

And the hon there lay dying, and they 

yielded to the foe. 

XIII 

And the stately Spanish men to their 

flagship bore him then. 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir 

Richard caught at last. 
And they praised him to his face with 

their courtly foreign grace; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 
" I have fought for Queen and Faith like a 

valiant man and true; loi 

I have only done my duty as a man is 

bound to do. 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Gren- 

ville die!" 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

XIV 

And they stared at the dead that had been 

so valiant and true, 105 

And had holden the power and glory of 

Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and 

his English few; 
Was he devil or man? He was devil for 

aught they knew, 



TENNYSON 



599 



But they sank his body with honor down 

into the deep, 
And they manned the Revenge with a 

swarthier aHen crew, no 

And away she sailed with her loss and 

longed for her own; 
When a wind from the lands they had 

ruined awoke from sleep. 
And the water began to heave and the 

weather to moan. 
And or ever that evening ended a great 

gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave.that is raised by 

an earthquake grew, nS 

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails 

and their masts and their flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on 

the shot-shattered navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down 

by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 

RIZPAH 
17— 

I 

Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over 

land and sea — 
And Willy's voice in the wind, "0 mother, 

come out to me!" 
Why should he call me to-night, when he 

knows that I cannot go? 
For the downs are as bright as day, and 

the full moon stares at the snow. 



We should be seen, my dear; they would 

spy us out of the town. 5 

The loud black nights for us, and the 

storm rushing over the down. 
When I cannot see my own hand, but am 

led by the creak of the chain, 
And grovel and grope for my son till I 

find myself drenched with the rain. 

Ill 

An>'thing fallen again? nay — what was 

there left to fall? 
I have taken them home, I have numbered 

the bones, I have hidden them all. 10 
What am I saying? and what are you? do 

you come as a spy? 
Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree 

falls so must it lie. 



IV 

Who let her in? how long has she been? 

you — what have you heard? 
Why did you sit so quiet? you never have 

spoken a word. 
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none 

of their spies — 15 

But the night has crept into my heart, 

and begun to darken my eyes. 



Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what 

should you know of the night. 
The blast and the burning shame and the 

bitter frost and the fright? 
I have done it, while you were asleep — 

you were only made for the day. 
I have gathered my baby together — and 

now you may go your way. 20 

VI 

Nay — for it's kind of you, madam, to sit 

by an old dying wife. 
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have 

only an hour of life. 
I kissed my boy in the prison, before he 

went out to die. 
"They dared me to do it," he said, and he 

never has told me a lie. 
I whipped him for robbing an orchard once 

when he was but a child — 25 

"The farmer dared me to do it," he said; 

he was always so wild — 
And idle— and couldn't be idle — my Willy 

— he never could rest. 
The King should have made him a soldier, 

he would have been one of his best. 

VII 

But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and 

they never would let him be good; 
They swore that he dare not rob the mail, 

and he swore that he would; 30 

And he took no life, but he took one purse, 

and when all was done 
He flung it among his fellows — "I'll none 

of it," said my son. 

VIII 

I came into court to the judge and the 
lawyers. I told them my tale, 

God's own truth — but they killed him, 
they killed him for robbing the mail. 



6oo 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



They hanged him in chains for a show — 

we had always borne a good name — ^35 
To be hanged for a thief — and then put 

away — isn't that enough shame? 
Dust to dust — low down — let us hide! but 

they set him so high 
That all the ships of the world could stare 

at him, passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and 

horrible fowls of the air, 
But not the black heart of the lawyer who 

killed him and hanged him there. 40 

IX 

And the jailer forced me away. I had bid 

him my last good-bye; 
They had fastened the door of his cell. 

"O mother! " I heard him cry. 
I couldn't get back though I tried, he had 

something further to say, 
And now I never shall know it. The jailer 

forced me away. 



Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of 
my boy that was dead, 45 

They seized me and shut me up: they 
fastened me down on my bed. 

"Mother, O mother!" — he called in the 
dark to me year after year— 

They beat me for that, they beat me— 
you know that I couldn't but hear; 

And then at the last they found I had 
grown so stupid and still 

They let me abroad again — but the crea- 
tures had worked their will. 50 

XI 

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my 

bone was left — 
I stole them all from the lawyers — and 

you, will you call it a theft? — 
My baby, the bones that had sucked me, 

the bones that had laughed and had 

cried — 
Theirs? 0, no! they are mine — not theirs 

— they had moved in my side. 

XII 

Do you think I was scared by the bones? I 
kissed 'em, I buried 'em all — 55 

I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by 
the churchyard wall. 



My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the 
trumpet of judgment 'ill sound. 

But I charge you never to say that I laid 
him in holy ground. 

XIII 

They would scratch him up — they would 

hang him again on the cursed tree. 
Sin? O, yes, we are sinners, I know — let 

all that be, 60 

And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's 

goodwill toward men— 
"Full of compassion and mercy, the 

Lord" — let me hear it again; 
"Full of compassion and mercy — long- 
suffering." Yes, O, yes! 
For the lawyer is born but to murder — 

the Savior lives but to bless. 
He '11 never put on the black cap except 

for the worst of the worst, 65 

And the first may be last — I have heard 

it in church — and the last may be first. 
Suffering — 0, long-suffering — yes, as the 

Lord must know, 
Year after year in the mist and the wind 

and the shower and the snow. 

XIV 

Heard, have you? what? they have told 

you he never repented his sin. 
How do they know it? are they his mother? 

are you of his kin? 70 

Heard! have you ever heard, when the 

storm on the downs began, 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the 

sea that 'ill moan like a man? 

XV 

Election, Election, and Reprobation — it's 

all very well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall 

not find him in hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that the 

Lord has looked into my care, 75 
And He means me I'm sure to be happy 

with Willy, I know not where. 

XVI 

And if he be lost — ^but to save my soul, 

that is all your desire — 
Do you think that I care for my soul if my 

boy be gone to the fire? 



TENNYSON 



60 1 



I have been with God in the dark — go, go, 
you may leave me alone — 

You never have borne a child — you are 
just as hard as a stone. 80 

XVII 

Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that 
you mean to be kind, 

But I cannot hear what you say for my 
Willy's voice in the wind — 

The snow and the sky so bright — he used 
but to call in the dark, 

And he calls to me now from the church 
and not from the gibbet — for hark! 

Nay — ^you can hear it yourself — it is 
coming — shaking the walls — 85 

Willy — the moon 's in a cloud Good- 
night. I am going. He calls. 



BY AN EVOLUTIONIST 

The Lord let the house of a brute to the 
soul of a man, 
And the man said, "Am I your debtor?" 
And the Lord — "Not yet: but make it as 
clean as you can. 
And then I will let you a better." 



If my body come from brutes, my soul 

uncertain or a fable, 5 

Why not bask amid the senses while 

the sun of morning shines, 

I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, 

and in my stable, 

Youth and health, and birth and wealth, 

and choice of women and of wines? 

II 

What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, 
save breaking my bones on the rack? 
Would I had passed in the morning that 
looks so bright from afar! 10 

Old Age 

Done for thee? starved the wild beast that 
was linked with thee eighty years back. 

Less weight now for the ladder of heaven 
that hangs on a star. 



If my body come from brutes, though some- 
what finer than their own, 
I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall 
the royal voice be mute? 
No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag 
me from the throne, 15 

Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and rule 
thy province of the brute. 

II 

I have climbed to the snows of Age, and 

I gazed at a field in the Past, 
Where I sank with the body at times in 

the sloughs of a low desire, 
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the 

Man is quiet at last 
As he stands on the heights of his life with 

a glimpse of a height that is higher. 20 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 

I 
O young Mariner, 
You from the haven 
Under the sea-clifif. 
You that are watching 
The gray Magician 
With eyes of wonder, 
/ am Merlin, 
And / am dying, 
/ am Merhn 
Who follow The Gleam. 

II 

Mighty the Wizard 
Who found me at sunrise 
Sleeping, and woke me 
And learned me Magic! 
Great the Master, 
And sweet the Magic, 
When over the valley. 
In early summers, 
OvBr the mountain, 
On human faces, 
And all around me, 
Moving to melody, 
Floated The Gleam. 



15 



ni 



Once at the croak of a Raven who 

crossed it, 
A barbarous people, 25 

Blind to the magic, 



6o2 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And deaf to the melody, 

Snarled at and cursed me. 

A demon vexed me, 

The light retreated, 30 

The landskip^ darkened. 

The melody deadened, 

The Master whispered 

"Follow The Gleam." 

IV 

Then to the melody, 35 

Over a wilderness 

Gliding, and glancing at 

Elf of the woodland. 

Gnome of the cavern, 

Griffin and Giant, 40 

And dancing of Fairies 

In desolate hollows. 

And wraiths of the mountain. 

And rolling of dragons 

By warble of water, 45 

Or cataract music 

Of falling torrents, 

Flitted The Gleam. 



Down from the mountain 

And over the level, 50 

And streaming and shining on 

Silent river, 

Silvery willow, 

Pasture and plowland, 

Horses and oxen, 55 

Innocent maidens, 

Garrulous children, 

Homestead and harvest, 

Reaper and gleaner, 

And rough-ruddy faces 60 

Of lowly labor, 

Slided The Gleam. — 

VI 

Then, with a melody . 

Stronger and statelier. 

Led me at length 65 

To the city and palace 

Of Arthur the king; 

Touched at the golden 

Cross of the churches. 

Flashed on the Tournament 70 

Flickered and bickered 

From helmet to helmet, 

1 landscape. 



And last on the forehead 

Of Arthur the blameless 

Rested The Gleam. 75 

VII 

Clouds and darkness 
Closed upon Camelot; 
Arthur had vanished 
I knew not whither. 
The king who loved me, 80 

And cannot die; 
For out of the darkness 
Silent and slowly 

The Gleam, that had waned to a win- 
try glimmer 
On icy fallow 85 

And faded forest. 
Drew to the valley 
Named of the shadow, 
And slowly brightening 
Out of the glimmer, 90 

And slowly moving again to a melody 
Yearningly tender. 
Fell on the shadow. 
No longer a shadow, 
But clothed with The Gleam. 95 

VIII 

And broader and brighter 

The Gleam flying onward. 

Wed to the melody. 

Sang through the world; 

And slower and fainter, 100 

Old and weary, 

But eager to follow, 

I saw, whenever 

In passing it glanced upon 

Hamlet or city, 105 

That under the Crosses 

The dead man's garden. 

The mortal hillock. 

Would break into blossom; 

And so to the land's no 

Last limit I came — 

And can no longer, 

But die rejoicing, 

For through the Magic 

Of Him the Mighty, 115 

Who taught me in childhood, 

There on the border 

Of boundless Ocean, 

And all but in Heaven 

Hovers The Gleam. 120 



BROWNING 



603 



IX 

Not of the sunlight, 

Not of the moonlight, 

Not of the starlight! 

O young Mariner, 

Down to the haven, 125 

Call your companions. 

Launch your vessel. 

And crowd your canvas, 

And, ere it vanishes 

Over the margin, 130 

After it, follow it, 

Follow The Gleam. 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me! 
A nd may there be no moaning of the bar. 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, s 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the 
boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark! 10 

And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark; 

For though from out our bourne of Time 
and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 15 

When I have crossed the bar. 



ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889) 

SONG fro7n PIPPA PASSES 

The year's at the spring 
And day's at the morn; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hillside's dew-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn; 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world! 



CAVALIER TUNES 

I. MARCHING ALONG 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 
Bidding the crop-headed ParHament swing: 
And, pressing^ a troop imable to stoop 
And see the rogues flourish and honest folk 

droop. 
Marched them along, fifty-score strong, 5 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 

song. 

God for King Charles! Pym and such 

carles^ 
To the Devil that prompts 'em their 

treasonous paries!^ 
Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup. 
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take, nor 
sup, 10 

Till you're— 

Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score 
strong. 
Great-hearted gentlemen, sing- 
ing this song! 

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell 
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harr>^ 

as well! 
England , good cheer ! Rupert is near ! i s 
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, 
Cho. — Marching along, fifty-score 
strong. 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing 
this song? 

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and 

his snarls 
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent 
carles! 20 

Hold by the right, you double your might : 
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the 
fight, 
Cho. — March we along, fifty-score 
strong. 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing 
this song! 

n. GIVE A rouse 
King Charles, and who '11 do him right 

now? 
King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight 

now? 
Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now. 
King Charles! 

' pressing into service. - churls, knaves. 

3 parleyings, debates. 



6o4 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Who gave me the goods that went since? 5 
Who raised me the house that sank once? 
Who helped me to gold I spent since? 
Who found me in^ wine you drank once? 
Cho. — King Charles, and who'll do him 
right now? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for 
fight now? 10 

Give a rouse: here's, in hell's de- 
spite now, 
King Charles! 

To whom used my boy George quaff else. 

By the old fool's side that begot him? 

For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 1 5 

While Noll's^ damned troopers shot him? 

Cho. — King Charles, and who'll do him 

right now? 

King Charles, and who's ripe for 

fight now? 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's de- 
spite now. 
King Charles! 20 

III. BOOT AND SADDLE 

Boot, saddle, to horse and away! 
Rescue my castle before the hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. 
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse and away! 

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; 
Many's the friend there, will listen and 

pray 6 

"God's luck to gallants that strike up the 

lay — 
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 



away 



Forty miles oflf , Hke a roebuck at bay, 
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' 
array: 10 

Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by 
my fay, 
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
away!" 

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest 

and gay. 
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, 

"Nay! 
I've better counsellors; what counsel they? 
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 



away 



16 



1 supplied me with. 



2 Oliver Cromwell's. 



THE LOST LEADER 

Just for a handful of silver he left us. 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft 
us. 
Lost all the others she lets us devote; 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out 
silver, 5 

So much was theirs who so little allowed: 
How all our copper had gone for his serv- 
ice! 
Rags — were they purple, his heart had 
been proud! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, 
• honored him. 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 10 
Learned his great language, caught his 
clear accents, 
Made him our pattern to live and to die! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 
Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they 
watch from their graves! 
He alone breaks from the van and the free- 
men, 15 
— He alone sinks to the rear and the 
slaves! 

We shall ma/ch prospering, — not through 
his presence; 
Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre ; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his 
quiescence. 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade 
aspire; 20 

Blot out his name, then, record one lost 
soul more. 
One task more declined, one more foot- 
path untrod, 
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for 
angels. 
One wrong more to man, one more insult 
to God! 
Life's night begins: let him never come 
back to us! 25 

There would be doubt, hesitation and 
pain. 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of 
twilight, 
Never glad confident morning again! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — 
strike gallantly. 
Menace our heart ere we master his 
own; 30 



BROWNING 



605 



Then let him receive the new knowledge With resolute shoulders, each butting 



and wait us, 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the 
throne ! 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 
NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all 

three ; 
"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the 

gate-bolts undrew; 
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping 

through; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank 

to rest, S 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept the 

great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never 

changing our place; 
I turned in my saddle and made its 

girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the 

pique^ right, 10 

Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker 

the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas moonset at starting; but while 

we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight 

dawned clear; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out 

to see; 15 

At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as 

could be; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we 

heard the half -chime. 
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there 

is time! " 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black 
every one, 20 

To stare through the mist at us gallop- 
ing past. 

And I saw my stout galloper Roland at 
last, 

' peak, pommel. 



away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its 
spray : 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp 

ear bent back 25 

For my voice, and the other pricked out 

on his track ; " 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever 

that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, 

askance ! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which 

aye and anon 29 

His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried 

Joris, "Stay spur! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's 

not in her. 
We'll remember at ALx" — for one heard 

the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and 

staggering knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the 

flank, 35 

As down on her haunches she shuddered 

and sank. 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in 

the sky; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitUess 

laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright 

stubble like chaff; 40 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang 

white. 
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in 

sight!" 

"How they'll greet us!" — and all in a 

moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a 

stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the 

whole weight 45 

Of the news which alone could save Aix 

from her fate. 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood 

to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' 

rim. 



6o6 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Then I cast loose my buff coat, each 

holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt 

and all, 50 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted 

his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my 

horse without peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, 

any noise, bad or good. 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped 

and stood. 

And all I remember is — friends flocking 

round 55 

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on 

the ground; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland 

of mine. 
As I poured down his throat our last 

measure of wine. 
Which (the burgesses voted by common 

consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought 

good news from Ghent. 60 



MEETING AT NIGHT 

The gray sea and the long black land; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low; 
And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep. 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 5 
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; 
Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
And blue spurt of a lighted match, 10 
And a voice less loud, through its joys 

and fears, 
Than the two hearts beating each to each! 



PARTING AT MORNING 

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea. 
And the sun looked over the mountain's 

rim: 
And straight was a path of gold for him, 
And the need of a world of men for me. 



SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH 
CLOISTER 

Gr-r-r — there go, my heart's abhorrence! 

Water your damned flower-pots, do! 
If hate lalled men. Brother Lawrence, 

God's blood, would not mine kill you! 
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? 

Oh, that rose has prior claims — 6 

Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? 

Hell dry you up with its flames! 

At the meal we sit together: 

Salve tibi! I must hear 10 

Wise talk of the kind of weather, 

Sort of season, time of year: 
Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely 

Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt: 
What's the Latin name for ^^ parsley ".^ 15 

What's the Greek name for Swine's 
Snout? 

Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, 

Laid with care on our own shelf! 
With a fire-new spoon we're furnished. 

And a goblet for ourself , 20 

Rinsed like something sacrificial 

Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps — 
Marked with L for our initial! 

(He-he! There his lily snaps!) 

Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores 25 

Squats outside the Convent bank 
With Sanchicha, telling stories, 

Steeping tresses in the tank, 
Blue-black, lustrous, thick Hke horse-hairs, 

— Can't I see his dead eye glow, 30 

Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? 

(That is, if he'd let it show!) 



When he finishes refection, 

Knife and fork he never lays 
Cross- wise, to my recollection, 

As do I, in Jesu's praise. 
I the Trinity illustrate, 

Drinking watered orange-pulp — 
In three sips the Arian frustrate; 

While he drains his at one gulp. 

Oh, those melons! If he's able 
We're to have a feast! so nice! 

One goes to the Abbot's table, 
All of us get each a slice. 



35 



40 



BROWNING 



607 



How go on your flowers? None double? 45 
Not one fruit-sort can you spy? 

Strange! — And I, too, at such trouble 
Keep them close-nipped on the sly! 

There's a great text in Galatians, 

Once you trip on it, entails 50 

Twenty-nine distinct damnations, 

One sure, if another fails: 
If I trip him just a-dying, 

Sure of heaven as sure can be, 
Spin him round and send him flying 55 

Off to hell, a Manichee! 

Or, my scrofulous French novel 

On gray paper with blunt type! 
Simply glance at it, you grovel 

Hand and foot in Belial's gripe: 60 
If I double down its pages 

At the woeful sixteenth print, 
When he gathers his greengages, 

Ope a sieve and slip it in't? 

Or, there's Satan! one might venture 65 

Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave 
Such a flaw in the indenture 

As he'd miss till, past retrieve. 
Blasted lay that rose-acacia 

We're so proud of! Hy,Zy,Hine ... 70 
'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratia, 

Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r — you swine! 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April 's there. 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, sgme morning, unaware. 

That the lowest boughs and the brush- 
wood sheaf 5 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. 

While the chafiinch sings on the orchard 
bough 

In England — now! 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat buUds, and all the 

swallows! 10 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the 

hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent 

spray's edge — 



That's the wise thrush; he sings each song 
twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could re- 
capture 15 

The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with 
hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

— Far brighter than this gaudy melon- 
flower!- 20 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the 

Northwest died away; 
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking 

into Cadiz Bay; 
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face 

Trafalgar lay; 
In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned 

Gibraltar grand and gray; 
"Here and here did England help me: how 

can I help England? " — say, 5 

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to 

God to praise and pray. 
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent 

over Africa. 



SAUL 



Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere 

I tell, ere thou speak, 
ELiss my cheek, wish me well!" Then I 

wished it, and did kiss his cheek. 
And he: " Since the King, O my friend, for 

thy countenance sent, 
Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor 

until from his tent 
Thou return \\ith the joyful assurance the 

King liveth yet, 5 

Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with 

the water be wet. 
For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a 

space of three days. 
Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, 

of prayer nor of praise, 
To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have 

ended their strife, 
And that, faint in his triumph, the mon- 
arch sinks back upon life. 10 



6o8 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! 
God's child with his dew 

On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies 
still living and blue 

Just broken to twine round thy harp- 
strings, as if no wild heat 

Were now raging to torture the desert I" 



III 

Then I, as was meet, 

Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and 
rose on my feet, 15 

And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. 
The tent was unlooped ; 

I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and 
under I stooped; 

Hands and knees on the slippery grass- 
patch, all withered and gone, 

That extends to the second enclosure, I 
groped my way on 

Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. 
Then once more I prayed, 20 

And opened the foldskirts and entered, 
and was not afraid 

But spoke, ''Here is David, thy servant!" 
And no voice replied. 

At the first I saw naught but the black- 
ness; but soon I descried 

A something more black than the black- 
ness — the vast, the upright 

Main prop which sustains the pavilion; 
and slow into sight 25 

Grew a figure against it, gigantic and 
blackest of all. 

Then a sunbeam, that burst through the 
tent roof, showed Saul. 



IV 

He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both 
arms stretched out wide 

On the great cross-support in the center, 
that goes to each side; 

He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there 
as, caught in his pangs 30 

And waiting his change, the king serpent 
all heavily hangs. 

Far away from his kind, in the pine, till de- 
liverance come 

With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, 
drear and stark, blind and dumb. 



Then I tuned my harp, — took ofif the lilies 

we twine round its chords 
Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon- 
tide — those sunbeams like swords 1 35 
x\nd I first played the tune all our sheep 

know, as, one after one, 
So docile they come to the pen-door till 

folding be done. 
They are white and untorn by the bushes, 

for lo, they have fed 
Where the long grasses stifle the water 

within the stream's bed; 
And now one after one seeks its lodging, as 

star follows star 40 

Into eve and the blue far above us, — so 

blue and so far! 



VI 

— Then the tune, for which quails on the 

cornland will each leave his mate 
To fly after the player; then, what makes 

the crickets elate 
Till for boldness they fight one another; 

and then, what has weight 
To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside 

his sand-house — 45 

There are none such as he for a wonder, 

half bird and half mouse ! 
God made all the creatures and gave them 

our love and our fear. 
To give sign, we and they are his children, 

one family here. 



vn 

Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, 
their wine-song, when hand 

Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good 
friendship, and great hearts expand 50 

And grow one in the sense of this world's 
life. — And then, the last song 

When the dead man is praised on his jour- 
ney — "Bear, bear him along 

With his few faults shut up like dead 
flowerets ! Are balm-seeds not here 

To console us? The land has none left 
such as he on the bier. 54 

Oh, would we might keep thee, my 
brother!" — And then, the glad chaunt 

Of the marriage, — first go the young 
maidens, next, she whom we vaunt 



BROWNING 



609 



As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. 
— And then, the great march 

Wherein man runs to man to assist him 
and buttress an arch 

Naught can break; who shall harm them, 
our friends? — Then, the chorus in- 
toned 

As the Levites go up to the altar in glory 
enthroned. 60 

But I stopped here: for here in the dark- 
ness Saul groaned. 

vni 

And I paused, held my breath in such 
silence, and listened apart; 

And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shud- 
dered: and sparkles 'gan dart 

From the jewels that woke in his turban, 
at once with a start. 

All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies 
courageous at heart. 65 

So the head: but the body still moved not, 
still hung there erect. 

And I bent once again to my playing, pur- 
sued it unchecked, 

As I sang: — 

EX 

"Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! No 

spirit feels waste. 
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor 

sinew unbraced. 
Oh, the mid joys of living! the leaping 

from rock up to rock, 70 

The strong rending of boughs from the 

far-tree, the cool silver shock 
Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the 

hunt of the bear, 
And the sultriness showing the lion is 

couched in his lair. 
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over 

mth gold dust di\dne. 
And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, 

the full draft of wine, 75 

And the sleep in the dried river-channel 

where bulrushes tell 
That the water was wont to go warbling 

so softly and well. 
How good is man's life, the mere living! 

how fit to employ 
All the heart and the soul and the senses 

forever in joy! 
Hast thou loved the white locks of thy 

father, whose sword thou didst guard 



When he trusted thee forth with the 
armies, for glorious reward? 81 

Didst thou see the thin hands of thy 
mother, held up as men sung 

The low song of the nearly-departed, and 
hear her faint tongue 

Joining in while it could to the witness, 
' Let one more attest 

I have lived, seen God's hand through a 
lifetime, and all was for best? ' 85 

Then they sung through their tears in 
strong triumph, not much, but the 
rest. 

And thy brothers, the help and the con- 
test, the working whence grew 

Such result as, from seething grape- 
bundles, the spirit strained true: 

And the friends of thy boyhood — that boy- 
hood of wonder and hope. 

Present promise and wealth of the future 
beyond the eye's scope, — 90 

Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a 
people is thine; 

And all gifts, which the world offers singly, 
on one head combine ! 

On one head, all the beauty and strength, 
love and rage (like the throe 

That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor 
and lets the gold go). 

High ambition and deeds which surpass it, 
fame crowning them, — all 95 

Brought to blaze on the head of one crea- 
tur^KingSaul!" 



And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — heart, 

hand, harp and voice. 
Each hfting Saul's name out of sorrow, 

each bidding rejoice 
Saul's fame in the light it was made for — 

as when, dare I say, 
The Lord's army, in rapture of service, 

strains through its array, 100 

And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — 

" Saul ! " cried I, and stopped. 
And waited the thing that should follow! 

Then Saul, who hung propped 
By the tent's cross-support in the center, 

was struck by his name. 
Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy sum- 
mons goes right to the aim, 
And some mountain, the last to withstand 

her, that held (he alone, 105 



6io 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



While the vale laughed in freedom and 
flowers) on a broad bust of stone 

A year's snow bound about for a breast- 
plate, — leaves grasp of the sheet? 

Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunder- 
ously down to his feet, 

And there fronts you, stark, black, but 
alive yet, your mountain of old, 

With his rents, the successive bequeath- 
ings of ages untold — no 

Yea, each harm got in fighting your bat- 
tles, each furrow and scar 

Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the 
tempest — all hail, there they are! 

— Now again to be softened with verdure, 
again hold the nest 

Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young 
to the green on his crest 

For their food in the ardors of summer. 
One long shudder thrilled 115 

All the tent till the very air tingled, then 
sank and was stilled 

At the King's self left standing before me, 
released and aware. 

What was gone, what remained? All to 
traverse 'twixt hope and despair; 

Death was past, life not come: so he 
waited. Awhile his right hand 

Held the brow, helped the eyes left too 
vacant, forthwith to remand 120 

To their place what new objects should 
enter: 't was Saul as before. 

I looked up, and dared gaze at those eyes, 
nor was hurt any more 

Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye 
watch from the shore, 

At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a 
sun's slow decUne 

Over hills which, resolved in stem silence, 
o'erlap and entwine . 125 

Base with base to knit strength more in- 
tensely; so, arm folded arm 

O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. 

XI 

What spell or what charm, 

(For a while there was trouble within me,) 
what next should I urge 

To sustain him where song had restored 
him? — Song filled to the verge 

His cup with the wine of this life, press- 
ing all that it yields 130 

Of mere fruitage, the strength and the 
beauty: beyond, on what fields. 



Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to 

brighten the eye 
And bring blood to the lip, and commend 

them the cup they put by? 
He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not: 

he lets me praise life, 
Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 

XII 

Then fancies grew rife 135 

Which had come long ago on the pasture, 

when round me the sheep 
Fed in sUence — above, the one eagle 

wheeled slow as in sleep; 
And I lay in my hoUow and mused on the 

world that might lie 
'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 

'twixt the hill and the sky: 
And I laughed — "Since my days are or- 
dained to be passed with my flocks, 140 
Let me people, at least with my fancies, the 

plains and the rocks. 
Dream the life I am never to mix with, and 

image the show 
Of mankind as they live in those fashions 

I hardly shall know! 
Schemes of life, its best rules and right 

uses, the courage that gains. 
And the prudence that keeps what men 

strive for." And now these old trains 
Of vague thought came again; I grew 

surer; so once more the string 146 
Of my harp made response to my spirit, as 

thus — 

XIII 

"Yea, my King," 

I began — "thou dost well in rejecting 
mere comforts that spring 

From the mere mortal life held in common 
by man and by brute: 

In our flesh grows the branch of this life, 
in our soul it bears fruit. 150 

Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, 
— how its stem trembled first 

Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's 
antler; then safely outburst 

The fan-branches all round; and thou 
mindest when these too, in turn 

Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed 
perfect: yet more was to learn, 

E'en the good that comes in with the palm- 
fruit. Our dates shall we slight, 155 

When their juice brings a cure for all sor- 
row? or care for the plight 



BROWNING 



6ii 



Of the palm's self whose slow growth 

produced them? Not so! stem and 

branch 
Shall decay, nor be known in their place, 

while the palm wine shall stanch 
Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I 

pour thee such wine. 
Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! 

the spirit be thine! i6o 

By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, 

thou still shalt enjoy 
More indeed, than at first when incon- 

scious, the life of a boy. 
Crush that life, and behold its wine run- 
ning! Each deed thou hast done 
Dies, revives, goes to work- in the world; 

until e'en as the sun 
Looking down on the earth, though clouds 

spoil him, though tempests efface, 165 
Can find nothing his own deed produced 

not, must everywhere trace 
The results of his past summer-prime, — 

so, each ray of thy will, 
Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long 

over, shall thrill 
Thy whole people, the countless, A\dth 

ardor, till they too give forth 
A like cheer to their sons; who in turn, fill 

the South and the North 170 

With the radiance thy deed was the germ 

of. Carouse in the past ! 
But the license of age has its limit; thou 

diest at last: 
As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the 

rose at her height. 
So with man — so his power and his beauty 

for ever take flight. 
No! Again a long draft of my soul- wine! 

Look forth o'er the years! 175 

Thou hast done now with eyes for the ac- 
tual; begin with the seer's! 
Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale 

make his tomb — bid arise 
A gray mountain of marble heaped four- 
square, till built to the skies, 
Let it mark where the great First King 

slimibers: whose fame would ye 

know? 
Up above see the rock's naked face, where 

the record shall go 180 

In great characters cut by the scribe, — 

Such was Saul, so he did; 
With the sages directing the work, by the 

populace chid, — 



For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised 
there! Which fault to amend, 

In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, 
whereon they shall spend 

(See, in tablets 't is level before them) their 
praise, and record 185 

With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, 
— the statesman's great word 

Side by side with the poet's sweet com- 
ment. The river's a- wave 

With smooth paper-reeds grazing each 
other when prophet- winds rave: 

So the pen gives unborn generations their 
due and their part 

In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, 
thank God that thou art! " igo 

XIV 

And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou 
who didst grant me that day, 

And before it not seldom hast granted thy 
help to essay. 

Carry on, and complete an adventure, — 
my shield and my sword 

In that act where my soul was thy servant, 
thy word was my word, — 

Still be with me, who then at the summit 
of human endeavor 195 

And scaling the highest, man's thought 
could, gazed hopeless as ever 

On the new stretch of heaven above me — 
tni, mighty to save. 

Just one lift of thy hand cleared that dis- 
tance — God's throne from man's 
grave! 

Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my 
voice to my heart 

Which can scarce dare believe in what mar- 
vels last night I took part, 200 

As this morning I gather the fragments, 
alone with my sheep, 

And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish 
like sleep! 

For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while 
Hebron upheaves 

The dawn struggling with night on his 
shoulder, and Kidron retrieves 

Slow the damage of yesterday's sun- 
shine. 205 

XV 

I say then, — my song 
While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, 
and, ever more strong, 



6l2 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Made a proffer of good to console him — 

he slowly resumed 
His old motions and habitudes kingly. 

The right hand replumed 
His black locks to their wonted composure, 

adjusted the swathes 
Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat 

that his countenance bathes, 210 
He wipes off with the robe; and he girds 

now his loins as of yore. 
And feels slow for the armlets of price, 

with the clasp set before. 
He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere 

error had bent 
The brow from the daily communion; and 

still, though much spent 
Be the life and the bearing that front you, 

the same, God did choose, 215 

To receive what a man may waste, 

desecrate, never quite lose. 
So sank he along by the tent-prop, till, 

stayed by the pile 
Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, 

he leaned there awhile, 
And sat out my singing, — one arm round 

the tent-prop, to raise 
His bent head, and the other hung slack — 

till I touched on the praise 220 

I foresaw from all men in all time, to the 

man patient there; 
And thus ended, the harp falling forward. 

Then first I was 'ware 
That he sat, as I say, with my head just 

above his vast knees 
Which were thrust out on each side around 

me, like oak roots which please 
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I 

looked up to know 225 

If the best I could do had brought solace: 

he spoke not, but slow 
Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he 

laid it with care 
Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, 

on my brow: through my hair 
The large fingers were pushed, and he 

bent back my head, with kind power — 
All my face back, intent to peruse it, as 

men do a flower. 230 

Thus held he me there with his great eyes 

that scrutinized mine — 
And oh, all my heart how it loved him! 

but where was the sign? 
I yearned — " Could I help thee, my father, 

inventing a bliss. 



I would add, to that life of the past, both 
the future and this; 

I would give thee new life altogether, as 
good, ages hence, 235 

As this moment, — had love but the war- 
rant love's heart to dispense!" 

XVI 

Then the truth came upon me. No harp 
more — no song more! outbroke — 

XVII 

"I have gone the whole round of creation: 

I saw and I spoke: 
I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, 

received in my brain 
And pronounced on the rest of his hand- 
work — returned him again 240 
His creation's approval or censure: I 

spoke as I saw, 
I report, as a man may of God's work — 

all's love, yet all's law. 
Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. 

Each faculty tasked 
To perceive him has gained an abyss, 

where a dewdrop was asked. 
Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels 

at Wisdom laid bare. 245 

Have I forethought? how purblind, how 

blank, to the Infinite Care! 
Do I task any faculty highest, to image 

success? 
j I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no 

more and no less. 
In the king I imagined, full-fronts me, 

and God is seen God 
In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in 

the soul and the clod. 250 

And thus looking within and around me, 

I ever renew 
(With that stoop of the soul which in bend- 
ing upraises it too) 
The submission of man's nothing-perfect 

to God's all-complete. 
As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb 

to his feet. 
Yet with all this abounding experience, 

this deity known, 255 

I shall dare to discover some province, 

some gift of my own. 
There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard 

to hoodwink. 



BROWNING 



613 



I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh 

as I think) 
Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, 

wot ye, I worst 
E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I 

could love if I durst! 260 

But I sink the pretension as fearing a man 

may o'ertake 
God's own speed in the one way of love: 

I abstain for love's sake. 
— What, my soul? see thus far and no 

farther? when doors great and small, 
Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, 

should the hundredth appal? 
In the least things have faith, yet distrust 

in the greatest of all? 265 

Do I find love so full in my nature, God's 

ultimate gift, 
That I doubt his own love can compete 

with it? Here, the parts shift? 
Here, the creature surpass the Creator, — 

the end, what Began? 
Would I fain in my impotent yearning 

do all for this man. 
And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, 

who yet alone can? 270 

Would it ever have entered my mind, the 

bare will, much less power. 
To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, 

the marvelous dower 
Of the life he was gifted and filled with? 

to make such a soul, 
Such a body, and then such an earth for 

insphering the whole? 
And doth it not enter my mind (as my 

warm tears attest), 275 

These things being given, to go on, and 

give one more, the best? 
Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, 

maintain at the height 
This perfection, — succeed with life's day- 
spring, death's minute of night? 
Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch 

Saul the mistake, 
Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, 

— and bid him awake 280 

Frorr; the dream, the probation, the pre- 
lude, to find himself set 
Clear and safe in new light and new life, 

— a new harmony yet 
To be run and continued, and ended — 

who knows? — or endure! 
The man taught enough by life's dream, of 

the rest to make sure; 



By the pain- throb, triumphantly winning 
intensified bliss, 285 

And the next world's reward and repose, 
by the struggles in this. 



XVIII 

''I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 

'tis I who receive: 
In the first is the last, in thy will is my 

power to believe. 
All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, 

as prompt to my prayer 
As I breathe out this breath, as I open 

these arms to the air. 290 

From thy will, stream the worlds, life and 

nature, thy dread Sabaoth: 
/ will? — the mere atoms despise me ! Why 

am I not loth 
To look that, even that in the face too? 

Why is it I dare 
Think but lightly of such impuissance? 

What stops my despair? 
This; — 'tis not what man Does which ex- 
alts him, but what man Would do! 
See the King — I would help him but can- 
not, the wishes fall through. 296 
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, 

grow poor to enrich, 
To fill up his hfe, starve my own out, I 

would — knowing which, 
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, 

speak through me now! 
Would I suffer for him that I love? So 

wouldst thou — so wilt thou! 300 

So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffa- 

blest, uttermost crown — 
And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor 

leave up nor down 
One spot for the creature to stand in! It 

is by no breath. 
Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation 

joins issue with death! 
As thy Love is discovered almighty, al- 
mighty be proved 305 
Thy power, that exists with and for it, of 

being Beloved! 
He who did most, shall bear most; the 

strongest shall stand the most weak. 
'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry 

for ! my flesh, that I seek 
In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. 

Saul, it shall be 



6i4 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



A Face like my face that receives thee; a 
Man Uke to me, 310 

Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever; 
a Hand like this hand 

Shall throw open the gates of new life to 
thee! See the Christ stand!" 

XIX 

I know not too well how I found my way 
home in the night. 

There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to 
left and to right, 

x-Xngels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the 
alive, the aware: 315 

I repressed, I got through them as hardly, 
as strugglingly there, 

As a runner beset by the populace fam- 
ished for news — 

Life or death. The whole earth was awak- 
ened, hell loosed with her crews; 

And the stars of night beat with emotion, 
and tingled and shot 

Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowl- 
edge: but I fainted not, 320 

For the Hand still impelled me at once and 
supported, suppressed 

All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, 
and holy behest. 

Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the 
earth sank to rest. 

Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had 
withered from earth — 

Not so much, but I saw it die out in the 
day's tender birth; 325 

In the gathered intensity brought to the 
gray of the hills; 

In the shuddering forests' held breath; in 
the sudden wind-thrills; 

In the startled wdld beasts that bore otif, 
each with eye sidling still. 

Though averted with wonder and dread; 
in the birds stiff and chill 

That rose heavily as I approached them, 
made stupid with awe: 330 

E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — 
he felt the new law. 

The same stared in the white humid 
faces upturned by the flowers; 

The same worked in the heart of the cedar 
and moved the vine-bowers: 

And the little brooks witnessing mur- 
mured, persistent and low. 

With their obstinate, all but hushed voices 
— "E'en so, it is so!" 335 



LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 

Where the quiet-colored end of evening 
smiles 

Miles and miles 
On the solitary pastures where our sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle homeward through the twilight, 
stray or stop 5 

As they crop — 
Was the site once of a city great and gay 

(So they say), 
Of our country's very capital, its prince 

Ages since 10 

Held his court in, gathered councils, 
wielding far 

Peace or war. 

Now, — the country does not even boast a 
tree. 
As you see, 
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain 
rills 15 

From the hills 
Intersect and give a name to (else they 
run 
Into one), 
Where the domed and daring palace shot 
its spires 
Up like fires 20 

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall 

Bounding all. 
Made of marble, men might march on nor 
be pressed. 
Twelve abreast. 

And such plenty and perfection, see, oi 
grass 25 

Never was! 
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, 
o'erspreads 
And embeds 
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone. 
Stock or stone — 30 

Where a multitude of men breathed jo>' 
and woe 
Long ago; 
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, 
dread of shame 
Struck them tame; 
And that glory and that shame alike, the 
gold 35 

Bought and sold. 



BROWNING 



615 



Now, — the single little turret that remains 

On the plains, 
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd 
Overscored, 40 

While the patching houseleek's head of 
blossom winks 
Through the chinks — 
Marks the basement whence a tower in 
ancient time 
Sprang sublime. 
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots 
traced 45 

As they raced, 
And the monarch and his minions and his 
dames 
Viewed the games. 

And I know — while thus the quiet- 
colored eve 
Smiles to leave 50 

To their folding, all our many tinkhng 
fleece 
In such peace. 
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished 
gray 
Melt away — 
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow 
hair 55 

Waits me there 
In the turret whence the charioteers 
caught soul 
For the goal, 
When the king looked, where she looks 
now, breathless, dumb 
Till I come. 60 

But he looked upon the city, every side, 

Far and wide, 
All the mountains topped with temples, 
all the glades' 
Colonnades, 
All the causeys,^ bridges, aqueducts, — and 
then, 65 

All the men ! 
When I do come, she will speak not, she 
will stand. 
Either hand 
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first 
embrace 
Of my face, 70 

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and 
speech 
Each on each. 



In one year they sent a million fighters 
forth 
South and North, 
And they built their gods a brazen pillar 
high 75 

As the sky, 
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full 
force — 
Gold, of course. 
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood 
that burns! 
Earth's returns 80 

For whole centuries of folly, noise and 
sin! 
Shut them in, 
With their triumphs and their glories and 
the rest! 
Love is best. 



MEMORABILIA 

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain. 
And did he stop and speak to you, 

And did you speak to him again? 
How strange it seems and new ! 

But you were living before that, 5 

And also you are living after; 

And the memory I started at — 

My starting moves your laughter! 

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 

And a certain use in the world no 

doubt, 10 

Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about: 

For there I picked up on the heather 
And there I put inside my breast 

A moulted feather, an eagle-f eather ! 15 
Well, I forget the rest. 



MY LAST DUCHESS 

Ferrara 

That's my last Duchess painted on the 

wall 
Looking as if she were alive. I call 
That piece a wonder, now: Era Pandolf's 

hands 
Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 



6r6 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Will 't please you sit and look at her? I 

said 5 

"Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read 
Strangers like you that pictured coun- 
tenance, 
The depth and passion of its earnest 

glance, 
But to myself they turned (since none 

puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) lo ; 
And seemed as they would ask me, if ! 

they durst, 
How such a glance came there; so, not ; 

the first 
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas 

not 
Her husband's presence only, called that 

spot 
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps 15 
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle 

laps ' 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or " Paint 
Must never hope to reproduce the faint ; 
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" , 

such stuff 
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause 

enough 20 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 
A heart — ^how shall I say? — too soon made 

glad. 
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er 
She looked on, and her looks went every- 
where. 24 
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast. 
The dropping of the daylight in the 

West, 
The bough of cherries some officious fool 
Broke in the orchard for her, the white 

mule 
She rode with round the terrace — all 

and each 
Would draw from her alike the approving 

speech, 3° 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men,— 

good! but thanked 
Somehow — I know not how — as if she 

ranked 
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to 

blame 
This sort of trifling? Even had you 

skill 35 

In speech — (which I have not) — to make 

your will 



Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just 

this 
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss. 
Or there exceed the mark"^and if she let 
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40 
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made ex- 
cuse, 
— E'en then would be some stooping; and 

I choose 
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no 

doubt. 
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed 

without 
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave 
commands ; 45 

Then all smiles stopped together. There 

she stands 
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll 

meet 
The company below then. I repeat, 
The Count your master's known munifi- 
cence 
Is ample warrant that no just pretence 50 
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 
Though his fair daughter's self, as I 

avowed 
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, 

though. 
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 55 
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze 
for me! 



IN A GONDOLA 

He sings 

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart 

In this my singing. 
For the stars help me, and the sea bears 
part; 
The very night is clinging 
Closer to Venice' streets to leave one 
space 5 

Above me, whence thy face 
May light my joyous heart to thee its 
dwelling place. 

She speaks 

Say after me, and try to say 

My very words, as if each word 

Came from you of your own accord, 10 

In your own voice, in your own way: 



BROWNING 



617 



"This woman's heart and soul and brain 

Are mine as much as this gold chain 

She bids me wear; which" (say again) 

" I choose to make by cherishing 15 

A precious thing, or choose to fling 

Over the boat-side, ring by ring." 

And yet once more say ... no word 

more! 
Since words are only words. Give o'er! 

Unless you call me, all the same, 20 

Familiarly by my pet name. 

Which if the Three should hear you call, 

And me reply to, would proclaim 

At once our secret to them all. 

Ask of me, too, command me, blame, — 25 

Do, break down the partition-wall 

'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds 

Curtained in dusk and splendid folds ! 

What's left but — all of me to take? 

I am the Three's: prevent them, slake 30 

Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage. 

In practising with gems, can loose 

Their subtle spirit in his cruce^ 

And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, 

Leave them my ashes when thy use 35 

Sucks out my soul, thy heritage! 

He sings 

Past we glide, and past, and past! 

What's that poor Agnese doing 
Where they make the shutters fast? 

Gray Zanobi's just a- wooing 40 

To his couch the purchased bride: 

Past we glide! 

Past we glide, and past, and past! 

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring 
Like a beacon to the blast? 45 

Guests by hundreds, not one caring 
If the dear host's neck were wried: 

Past we glide! 

She sings 

The moth's kiss, first! 

Kiss me as if you made believe 50 

You were not sure, this eve. 

How my face, your flower, had pursed 

Its petals up; so, here and there 

You brush it, till I grow aware 

Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. 55 

' crucible. 



The bee's kiss, now! 

Kiss me as if you entered gay 

My heart at some noonday, 

A bud that dares not disallow 

The claim, so all is rendered up, 60 

And passively its shattered cup 

Over your head to sleep I bow. 

He sings 

What are we two? 

I am a Jew, 

And carry thee, farther than friends can 
pursue, 65 

To a feast of our tribe; 

Where they need thee to bribe 

The devil that blasts them unless he im- 
bibe 

Thy . . . Scatter the vision forever ! And 
now. 

As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 70 

Say again, what we are? 

The sprite of a star, 

I lure thee above where the destinies bar 

My plumes their full play 

Till a ruddier ray 75 

Than my pale one announce there is 

withering away 
Some . . . Scatter the vision forever! And 

now, 
As of old, I am I, thou art thou! 

He muses 

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? 

The land's lap or the water's breast? 80 

To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves. 

Or swim in lucid shallows just 

Eluding water-lily leaves, 

An inch from Death's black fingers, 

thrust 
To lock you, whom release he must; 85 
Which life were best on summer eves? 

He speaks, musing 

Lie back; could thought of mine improve 

you? 
From this shoulder let there spring 
A wing; from this, another wing; 
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! 
Snow-white must they spring, to blend 91 
With vDur flesh, but I intend 
They shall deepen to the end. 



6i8 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Broader, into burning gold, 
Till both wings crescent-wise enfold 95 
Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet 
To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet 
As if a milUon sword-blades hurled 
Defiance from you to the world! 

Rescue me thou, the only real! 100 

And scare away this mad ideal 
That came, nor motions to depart! 
Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art! 

Still he muses 

What if the Three should catch at last 
Thy serenader? While there's cast 105 
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast 
Gian pinions me, Himself has passed 
His stylet^ through my back; I reel; 
And ... is it thou I feel? 

They trail me, these three godless knaves, 
Past every church that saints and saves, 
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves 112 
By Lido's wet accursed graves. 
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink. 
And . . . on thy breast I sink ! 115 

She replies, musing 

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow- 
deep. 

As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep, 

Caught this way? Death's to fear from 
flame or steel, 

Or poison doubtless; but from water — 
feel! 

Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? 
There! 120 

Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon- 
grass 

To plait in where the foolish jewel was, 

I flung away: since you have praised my 
hair, 

'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear. 

He speaks 

Row home? must we row home? Too surely 

Know I where its front's demurely 126 

Over the Giudecca piled; 

Window just with window mating, 

Door on door exactly waiting. 

All's the set face of a child: 130 

But behind it, where's a trace 

1 stiletto. 



Of the staidness and reserve. 

And formal lines without a curve, 

In the same child's playing-face? 

No two vvindows look one way 135 

O'er the small sea-water thread 

Below them. Ah, the autumn day 

I, passing, saw you overhead! 

First, out a cloud of curtain blew. 

Then a sweet cry, and last came you — 140 

To catch your lory- that must needs 

Escape just then, of all times then, 

To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds. 

And make me happiest of men. 

I scarce could breathe to see you reach 145 

So far back o'er the balcony 

To catch him ere he climbed too high 

Above you in the Smyrna peach. 

That quick the round smooth cord of 

gold, 
This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, 150 
Fell down you like a gorgeous snake 
The Roman girls were wont, of old, 
When Rome there was, for coolness' sake 
To let he curling o'er their bosoms. 
Dear lory, may his beak retain 155 

Ever its deUcate rose stain 
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms 
Had marked their thief to know again! 

Stay longer yet, for others' sake 
Than mine ! What should your chamber do? 
— With all its rarities that ache 161 

In silence while day lasts, but wake 
At night-time and their life renew. 
Suspended just to pleasure you 164 

Who brought against their will together 
These objects, and, while day lasts, weave 
Around them such a magic tether 
That dumb they look: your harp, believe, 
With all the sensitive tight strings 
Which dare not speak, now to itself 1 70 
Breathes slumberously, as if some elf 
Went in and out the chords, his wings 
Make murmur wheresoe'er they graze. 
As an angel may, between the maze 
Of midnight palace-pillars, on 175 

And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone 
Through guilty glorious Babylon. 
And while such murmurs flow, the nymph 
Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell 
As the dry limpet for the lymph^ 180 

Come with a tune he knows so well. 
And how your statues' hearts must swell! 



• parrot. 



3 spring. 



BROWNING 



6ig 



And how your pictures must descend 

To see each other, friend with friend ! 

Oh, could you take them by surprise, 185 

You'd find Schidone's eager Duke 

Doing the quaintest courtesies 

To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke ! 

And, deeper into her rock den. 

Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen 190 

You'd find retreated from the ken 

Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser^ — 

As if the Tizian thinks of her. 

And is not, rather, gravely bent 

On seeing for himself what toys 195 

Are these, his progeny invent. 

What litter now the board employs 

Whereon he signed a document 

That got him murdered! Each enjoys 

Its night so well, you cannot break 200 

The sport up, so, indeed must make 

More stay with me, for others' sake. 

She speaks 

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, 

Is used to tie the jasmine back 

That overfloods my room with sweets, 205 

Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets 

My Zanze! If the ribbon's black, 

The Three are watching: keep away! 

Your gondola — let Zorzi wreathe 

A mesh of water-weeds about 210 

Its prow, as if he unaware 

Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair ! 

That I may throw a paper out 

As you and he go underneath. 

There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are 

we. _ 215 

Only one minute more to-night with me? 
Resume your past self of a month ago! 
Be you the bashful gallant, I will be 
The lady with the colder breast than snow. 
Now bow^ you, as becomes, nor touch my 

hand 220 

More than I touch yours when I step to 

land, 
And say, "All thanks, Siora!" — 

Heart to heart 
And Ups to Ups! Yet once more, ere we 

part. 
Clasp me and make me thine, as mine 

thou art ! 224 

[He is surprised, and stabbed. 

"Sir. 



He speaks 

It was ordained to be so, sweet! — and 

best 
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy 

breast. 
Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! 

Care 
Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 
My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not 

scorn 
To death, because they never Uved: 

but I 230 

Have hved indeed, and so — (yet one more 

kiss) — can die! 

A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARN- 
ING IN EUROPE 

Let us begin and carry up this corpse, 

Singing together. 
Leave we the common crofts,^ the vulgar 
thorpes ^ 

Each in its tether 
Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, 5 

Cared-for till cock-crow: 
Look out if yonder be not day again 

Rimming the rock-row ! 
That's the appropriate country; there, 
men's thought, 

Rarer, intenser, 10 

Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, 

Chafes in the censer. 
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and 
crop; 

Seek we sepulture 
On a tall mountain, citied to the top, 15 

Crowded with culture! 
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; 

Clouds overcome ^ it ; 
No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's 

Circling its summit. 20 

Thither our path lies; wind we up the 
heights ; 

Wait ye the warning? 
Our low life was the level's and the night's; 

He's for the morning. 
Step to a tune, square chests, erect each 
head, 25 

'Ware the beholders! 
This is our master, famous, calm and dead, 

Borne on our shoulders. 

1 small farm enclosures. -villaijes. 

' overshadow, conceal. 



620 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling 
thorpe and croft, 
Safe from the weather! 30 

He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, 

Singing together. 
He was a man born with thy face and 
throat. 
Lyric Apollo! 
Long he lived nameless: how should Spring 
take note 35 

Winter would follow? 
Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! 

Cramped and diminished. 
Moaned he, "New measures, other feet 
anon! 
My dance is finished"? 40 

No, that's the world's way: (keep the 
mountain-side, 
Make for the city!) 
He knew the signal, and stepped on with 
pride 
Over men's pity; 
Left play for work, and grappled with 
the world 45 

Bent on escaping: 
"What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou 
keepest furled? 
Show me their shaping. 
Theirs who most studied man, the bard 
and sage, — 
Give!" — So, he gowned him, 50 
Straight got by heart that book to its 
last page: 
Learned, we found him. 
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes 
like lead. 
Accents uncertain: 
"Time to taste life," another would have 
said, 55 

"Up with the curtain!" 
This man said rather, "Actual life comes 
next? 
Patience a moment! 
Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed 
text. 
Still there's the comment. 60 

Let me know all! Prate not of most or 
least. 
Painful or easy! 
Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the 
feast. 
Ay, nor feel queasy." 
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, 65 
When he had learned it. 



When he had gathered all books had to 
give! 
Sooner, he spurned it. 
Image the whole, then execute the parts — 
Fancy the fabric 70 

Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire 
from quartz. 
Ere mortar dab brick! 

(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the 
market-place 
Gaping before us.) 
Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 75 

(Hearten our chorus !) 
That before living he'd learn how to 
live — 
No end to learning: 
Earn the means first — God surely will 
contrive 
Use for our earning. 80 

Others mistrust and say, "But time 
escapes : 
Live now or never!" 
He said, "What's time? Leave Now for 
dogs and apes! 
Man has Forever." 
Back to his book then: deeper drooped 
his head: 85 

Calculus ^ racked him: 
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of 
lead: 
Tussis ^ attacked him. 
"Now, master, take a little rest!" — not 
he! 
(Caution redoubled, 90 

Step two abreast, the way winds nar- 
rowly!) 
Not a whit troubled, 
Back to his studies, fresher than at first. 

Fierce as a dragon 
He (soul-hydroptic ^ with a sacred 
thirst) 95 

Sucked at the flagon. 
Oh, if we draw a circle premature, 

Heedless of far gain, 
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure 
Bad is our bargain! 100 

Was it not great? did not he throw on 
God, 
(He loves the burthen) — 
God's task to make the heavenly period 
Perfect the earthen? 

' gall stones. 2 ^ cough. 

' thirsty, as in the disease of dropsy. 



BROWNING 



621 



Did not he magnify the mind, show 
clear 105 

Just what it all meant? 
He would not discount life, as fools do 
here. 
Paid by instalment. 
He ventured neck or nothing — heaven's 
success 
Found, or earth's failure: no 

"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He 
answered "Yes! 
Hence with life's pale lure!" 
That low man seeks a little thing to do. 

Sees it and does it: 
This high man, with a great thing to pur- 
sue, 115 
Dies ere he knows it. 
That low man goes on adding one to 
one. 
His hundred's soon hit: 
This liigh man, aiming at a million, 

Misses an unit. 120 

That, has the world here— should he need 
the next. 
Let the world mind him! 
This, throws himself on God, and un- 
perplexed 
Seeking shall find him. 
So, with the throttling hands of death 
at strife, 125 

Ground he at grammar; 
Still, through the rattle, parts of speech 
were rife: 
While he could stammer 
He settled H oil's business — let it be! — 
Properly based Oun — 130 

Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, 

Dead'^ from the waist down. 
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper 
place: 
Hail to your purlieus,^ 
All ye highfliers of the feathered race, 135 

Swallows and curlews! 
Here's the top-peak; the multitude below 

Live, for they can, there: 
This man decided not to Live but Know — 
Bury this man there? 140 

Here — here's his place, where meteors 
shoot, clouds form. 
Lightnings are loosened, 
Stars come and go! Let joy break with 
the storm. 
Peace let the dew send! 



' paralyzed. 



■ haunts. 



Lofty designs must close in like effects: 145 

Loftily lying. 
Leave him — still loftier than the world 
suspects, 

Living and dying. 



THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB 
AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH 

ROME, 15 — 

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! 
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping 

back? 
Nephews — sons mine . . . ah God, I know 

not! Well- 
She, men would have to be your mother 

once, 
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! 5 
What's done is done, and she is dead be- 
side, 
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, 
And as she died so must we die ourselves, 
And thence ye may perceive the world's 

a dream. 
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie 10 
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, 
Hours and long hours in the dead night, 

I ask 
"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace 

seems all. 
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for 

peace; 
And so, about this tomb of mine. I 

fought 15 

With tooth and nail to save my niche, 

ye know: 
— Old Gandolf cozened^ me, despite my 

care; 
Shrewd was that snatch from out the 

corner South 
He graced his carrion with, God curse the 

same! 
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but 

thence 20 

One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side. 
And somewhat of the choir, those silent 

seats. 
And up into the aery dome where live 
The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: 
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, 25 
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, 

' cheated. 



022 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



With those nine columns round me, two 

and two, 
The odd one at my feet where Ansehn 

stands: 
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the 
ripe 29 

As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. 
— Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, 
Put me where I may look at him! True 

peach, 
Rosy and flawless : how I earned the prize ! 
Draw close: that conflagration of my 

church 
— What then? So much was saved if 
aught were missed! 35 

My sons, ye would not be my death? Go 

dig 
The white-grape vineyard where the oil- 
press stood, 
Drop water gently till the surface sink. 
And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, 

I! . . . 
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 40 
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,^ 
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, 
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape. 
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's 

breast . . . 
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, 
all, _ 45 

That brave Frascati villa with its bath, 
So, let the blue lump poise between my 

knees, 
Like God the Father's globe on both his 

hands 
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay. 
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and 
burst ! 50 

Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: 
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? 
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black — 
'Twas ever anrique-black I meant! How 

else 
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come be- 
neath? 55 
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, 
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and 

perchance 
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so. 
The Savior at his sermon on the mount. 
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 60 
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last gar- 
ment off, 

1 basket woven of rushes. 



And Moses with the tables . . . but I 
know 

Ye mark me not! What do they whisper 
thee, 

Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope 

To revel down my villas while I gasp 65 

Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy traver- 
tine^ 

Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuck- 
les at! 

Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper, then! 

'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I 
grieve 

My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 70 

One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, 

There's plenty jasper somewhere in the 
world — 

And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to 
pray 

Horses for ye, and brown Greek manu- 
scripts, 

And mistresses with great smooth marbly 
limbs? 75 

— That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, 

Choice Latin, picked phrase, TuUy's every 
word, 

No gaudy ware like Gandolf 's second 
line— 

Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his 
need! 

And then how I shall lie through cen- 
turies. So 

And hear the blessed mutter of the mass. 

And see God made and eaten all day 
long. 

And feel the steady candle-flame, and 
taste 

Good, strong, thick, stupefying incense- 
smoke ! 

For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, 85 

Dying in state and by such slow degrees, 

I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook. 

And stretch my feet forth straight as 
stone can point, 

And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth,^ 
drop 

Into great laps and folds of sculptor's- 
work : go 

And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange 
thoughts 

Grow, with a certain humming in my 
ears. 

About the life before I lived this life, 

2 a cheap limestone. ' pall. 



BROWNING 



623 



And this life too, popes, cardinals and 

priests, 
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, 
Your tall pale mother with her talking 

eyes, 96 

And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, 
And marble's language, Latin pure, dis- 
creet, 
— Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? 
No TuUy, said I, Ulpian at the best! 100 
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. 
All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope 
My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? 
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, 
They glitter like your mother's for my 

soul, 105 

Or ye would heighten my impoverished 

frieze. 
Piece out its starved design, and fill my 

vase 
With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, 
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx 
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus 

down, no 

To comfort me on my entablature 
Whereon I am to lie till I must ask 
"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave 

me, there! 
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude 
To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it! 

Stone— 115 

Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares 

which sweat 
As if the corpse they keep were oozing 

through — 
A.nd no more lapis to delight the world! 
Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, 
But in a row: and, going, turn your backs 
— Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 121 
And leave me in my church, the church 

for peace. 
That I may watch at leisure if he leers — 
Old Gandolf — at me, from his onion- 
stone. 
As still he envied me, so fair she was! 125 

ANDREA DEL SARTO 

CALLED "the FAULTLESS PAINTER" 

But do not let us quarrel any more. 

No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: 

Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. 

You turn your face, but does it bring your 

heart? 



I'll work then for your friend's friend, 

never fear, 5 

Treat his own subject after his own way. 
Fix his own time, accept too, his own 

price, 
And shut the money into this small hand 
When next it takes mine. Will it? ten- 
derly? 
Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow, 

Love! 10 

I often am much wearier than you think, 
This evening more than usual, and it 

seems 
As if — forgive now — should you let me 

sit 
Here by the window with your hand in 

mine 
And look a half -hour forth on Fiesole, 15 
Both of one mind, as married p)eople use, 
Qmetly, quietly the evening through, 
I might get up to-morrow to my work 
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. 
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for 

this! 20 

Your soft hand is a woman of itself, 
And mine the man's bared breast she 

curls inside. 
Don't count the time lost, neither; you 

must serve 
For each of the five pictures we require: 
It saves a model. So ! keep looking so— 25 
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds I 
— How could you ever prick those perfect 

ears, 
Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so sweet — 
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon. 
Which everybody looks on and calls his, 30 
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, 
While she looks — no one's: very dear, no 

less. 
You smile? why, there's my picture ready 

made. 
There's what we painters call our harmony ! 
A common grayness silvers everything, — 
All in a twihght, you and I alike 36 

—You, at the point of your first pride in 

me 
(That's gone you know), — but I, at every 

point ; 
My youth, my hope, my art, being all 

toned down 
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 40 

There's the bell cUnking from the chapel- 
top; 



624 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



That length of convent-wall across the 

way 
Holds the trees safer, huddled more in- 
side ; 
The last monk leaves the garden; days 

decrease, 
And autumn grows, autumn in every- 
thing. _ 45 
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape 
As if I saw alike my work and self 
And all that I was born to be and do, 
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's 

hand. 
How strange now looks the life he makes 

us lead; 50 

So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! 
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! 
This chamber for example — turn your 

head — 
All that's behind us! You don't under- 
stand 
Nor care to understand about my art, 55 
But you can hear at least when people 

speak : 
And that cartoon, the second from the 

door 
— It is the thing. Love! so such thing 

should be — 
Behold Madonna ! — I am bold to say. 
I can do with my pencil what I know, 60 
What I see, what at bottom of my heart 
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep- 
Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, 
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, 
Who listened to the Legate's talk last 

week, 65 

And just as much they used to say in 

France. 
At any rate, 'tis easy, all of it! 
No sketches first, no studies, that's long 

past: 
I do what many dream of all their lives, 
— Dream? strive to do, and agonize to 

do, 70 

And fail in doing. I could count twenty 

such 
On twice your fingers, and not leave this 

town. 
Who strive — you don't know how the 

others strive 
To paint a little thing like that you smeared 
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — 
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone 

says, 76 



(I know his name, no matter) — so much 

less! 
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. 
There burns a truer light of God in them, 
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped- 

up brain, 80 

Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to 

prompt 
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's 

hand of mine. 
Their works drop groundward, but them- 
selves, I know. 
Reach many a time a heaven that's shut 

to me, 
Enter and take their place there sure 

enough, 85 

Though they come back and cannot tell 

the world. 
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit 

here. 
The sudden blood of these men! at a 

word — 
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it 

boils too. 
I, painting from myself, and to myself, 90 
Know what I do, am immoved by men's 

blame 
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks 
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced. 
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else. 
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of 

that? 95 

Speak as they please, what does the moun- 
tain care? 
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his 

grasp, 
Or what's a heaven for? All is silver- 

_gray. 
Placid and perfect with my art: the 

worse ! 
I know both what I want and what might 

gain, 100 

And yet how profitless to know, to sigh 
"Had I been two, another and myself. 
Our head would have o'erlooked the 

world!" No doubt. 
Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth 
The Urbinate who died five years ago. 105 
('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) 
Well, I can fancy how he did it all, 
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes 

to see, 
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish 

him. 



BROWNING 



625 



Above and through his art — for it gives 

way; no 

That arm is wrongly put — and there 

again — 
A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, 
Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, 
He means right — that, a child may under- 
stand. 
Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: 115 
But all the play, the insight and the 

stretch — 
Out of me, out of me! And wherefore 

out? 
Had you enjoined them on me, given me 

soul. 
We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! 
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I 

think — 120 

More than I merit, yes, by many times. 
But had you — oh, with the same perfect 

brow. 
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect 

mouth. 
And the low voice my soul hears, as a 

bird 
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the 

snare — 125 

. Had you, with these the same, but brought 

a mind! 
Some women do so. Had the mouth there 

urged 
"God and the glory! never care for gain. 
The present by the future, what is that? 
Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 130 
Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three! " 
I might have done it for you. So it seems: 
Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. 
Beside, incentives come from the soul's 

self; 
The rest avail not. Why do I need 

you? 135 

What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? 
In this world, who can do a thing, will 

not; 
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: 
Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, 

the power — 
And thus we half-men struggle. At the 

end, 140 

God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict. 
That I am something underrated here. 
Poor this long while, despised, to speak 

the truth. 



I dared not, do you know, leave home all 

day, 145 

For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 
The best is when they pass and look aside; 
But they speak sometimes; I must bear it 

all. 
Well may they speak! That Francis, that 

first time. 
And that long festal year at Fontaine- 

bleau! 150 

I surely then could sometimes leave the 

ground. 
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear. 
In that humane great monarch's golden 

look, — 
One finger in his beard or twisted curl 
Over his mouth's good mark that made 

the smile, 155 

One arm about my shoulder, round my 

neck. 
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, 
I painting proudly with his breath on me, 
All his court round him, seeing with his 

eyes, 
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of 

souls 160 

Profuse, my hand kept plying by those 

hearts, — 
And, best of all, this, this, this face be- 
yond. 
This in the background, waiting on my 

work, 
To crown the issue with a last reward! 164 
A good time, was it not, my kingly days? 
And had you not grown restless . . . 

but I know — 
'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my in- 
stinct said; 
Too live the life grew, golden and not gray. 
And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should 

tempt 
Out of his grange whose four walls make 

his world. 1 70 

How could it end in any other way? 
You called me, and I came home to your 

heart. 
The triumph was — to reach and stay 

there; since 
I reached it ere the triumph, what is 

lost? 
Let my hands frame your face in your 

hair's gold, 175 

You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! 
"Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; 



626 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



The Roman's is the better when you pray, 
But still the other's Virgin was his wife" — 
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 
Both pictures in your presence; clearer 

grows i8i 

My better fortune, I resolve to think. 
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, 
Said one day Agnolo, his very self, 
To Rafael ... I have known it all these 

years ... 185 

(When the young man was flaming out his 

thoughts 
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, 
Too lifted up in heart because of it) 
"Friend, there's a certain sorry little 

scrub 
Goes up and down our Florence, none 

cares how, 190 

Who, were he set to plan and execute 
As you are, pricked on by your popes and 

kings. 
Would bring the sweat into that brow of 

yours!" 
To Rafael's! — And indeed the arm is 

wrong. 
I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to 

see, 195 

Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line 

should go! 
Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! 
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth 
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? 
Do you forget already words like 

those?), 200 

If really there was such a chance, so lost, — 
Is, whether you're — not grateful — but 

more pleased. 
Well, let me think so. And you smile in- 
deed! 
This hour has been an hour! Another 

smile? 
If you would sit thus by me every night 
I should work better, do you compre- 
hend? 206 
I mean that I should earn more, give you 

more. 
See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; 
Morelljo's gone, the watch-lights show the 

wall, 
The cue-owls speak the name we call 

them by. 210 

Come from the window. Love, — come in, 

at last. 
Inside the melancholy little house 



We built to be so gay with. God is just. 
King Francis may forgive me; oft at 

nights. 
When I look up from painting, eyes tired 

out, 215 

The walls become illumined, brick from 

brick 
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright 

gold, 
That gold of his I did cement them with! 
Let us but love each other. Must you 

go? ^ 
That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 
Must see you — you, and not with me? 

Those loans? 221 

More gaming debts to pay? you smiled 

for that? 
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to 

spend? 
While hand and eye and something of a 

heart 
Are left me, work's my ware, and what's 

it worth? 225 

I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit 
The gray remainder of the evening out, 
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 
How I could paint, were I but back in 

France, 
One picture, just one more — the Virgin's 

face, 230 

Not yours this time! I want you at my 

side 
To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — 
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. 
I take the subjects for his corridor, 235 
Finish the portrait out of hand — there, 

there. 
And throw him in another thing or two 
If he demurs; the whole should prove 

enough 
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Be- 
side, 
What's better and what's all I care about. 
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff ! 241 
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what 

does he. 
The Cousin! what does he to please you 

more? 

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. 
I regret little, I would change still less. 245 
Since there my past life lies, why alter it? 
The very wrong to Francis! — it is true 



BROWNING 



627 



I took his coin, was tempted and com- 
plied, 

And built this house and sinned, and all 
is said. 249 

My father and my mother died of want. 

Well, had I riches of my own? you see 

How one gets rich! Let each one bear his 
lot. 

They were born poor, lived poor, and poor 
they died: 

And I have labored somewhat in my time 

And not been paid profusely. Some good 
son 255 

Paint my two hundred pictures — let him 
try! 

No doubt, there's something strikes a 
balance. Yes, 

You loved me quite enough, it seems to- 
night. 

This must suffice me here. What would 
one have? 

In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more 
chance — 260 

Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, 

Meted on each side by the angel's reed, 

For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me 

To cover — the three first without a wife, 

While I have mine! So — still they over- 
come ' 265 

Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I 
choose. 

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love. 



PROSPICE 

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat. 

The mist in my face. 
When the snows begin, and the blasts de- 
note 
I am nearing the place. 
The power of the night, the press of the 
storm, 5 

The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a 
visible form, 
Yet the strong man must go: 
For the journey is done and the summit 
attained, 
And the barriers fall, 10 

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon 
be gained, 
The reward of it all. 



I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more. 

The best and the last! 
I would hate that death bandaged my 
eyes, and forbore, 15 

And bade me creep past. 
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like 
my peers 
The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad 
life's arrears 
Of pain, darkness and cold. 20 

For sudden the worst turns the best to 
the brave. 
The black minute's at end, 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices 
that rave. 
Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
Shall change, shall become first a peace 
out of pain, 25 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee 
again. 
And with God be the rest! 



ABT VOGLER 

AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING 

UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 

OF HIS INVENTION 

Would that the structure brave, the man- 
ifold music I build. 
Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys 
to their work. 
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a 
touch, as when Solomon willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of 
demons that lurk, 
Man, brute, reptile, fly, — aUen of end and 
of aim, 5 

Adverse, each from the other heaven- 
high, hell-deep removed, — 
Should rush into sight at once as he named 
the ineffable Name, 
And pile him a palace straight, to 
pleasure the princess he loved! 

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful 

building of mine, 
This which my keys in a crowd pressed 

and importuned to raise! 10 

Ah, one and all, how they helped, would 

dispart now and now combine, 



628 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Zealous to hasten the work, heighten 

their master his praise! 
And one would bury his brow with a blind 

plunge down to hell, 
Burrow awhile and build, broad on 

the roots of things. 
Then up again swim into sight, having 

based me my palace well, 15 

Founded it, fearless of flame, fiat on the 

nether springs. 

And another would mount and march, 
like the excellent minion he was, 
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd 
but with many a crest. 
Raising my rampired^ walls of gold as 
transparent as glass. 
Eager to do and die, yield each his place 
to the rest: 20 

For higher still and higher (as a runner 
tips with fire, 
When a great illumination surprises a 
festal night — ■ 
OutHning round and round Rome's dome 
from space to spire) 
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and 
the pride of my sovd was in sight. 

In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was 
certain, to match man's birth, 25 
Nature in turn conceived, obeying an 
impulse as I; 
And the emulous heaven yearned down, 
made effort to reach the earth. 
As the earth had done her best, in my 
passion, to scale the sky: 
Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar 
and dwelt with mine. 
Not a point nor peak but found and 
fixed its wandering star; 30 

Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they 
did not pale nor pine, 
For earth had attained to heaven, there 
was no more near nor far. 

Nay more; for there wanted not who 
walked in the glare and glow. 
Presences plain in the place; or, fresh 
from the Protoplast, 
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier 
wind should blow, 35 

Lured now to begin and live, in a house 
to their liking at last; 

1 furnished with ramparts. 



Or else the wonderful Dead who have 

passed through the body and gone, 

But were back once more to breathe in 

an old world worth their new: 

What never had been, was now; what was, 

as it shall be anon; 

And what is, — shall I say, matched 

both? for I was made perfect too. 40 

All through my keys that gave their sounds 
to a wish of my soul. 
All through my soul that praised as its 
wish flowed visibly forth, 
All through music and me! For think, 
had I painted the whole. 
Why, there it had stood, to see, nor 
the process so wonder- worth : 
Had I written the same, made verse — 
still effect proceeds from cause, 45 
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye 
hear how the tale is told; 
It is all triumphant art, but art in obe- 
dience to laws. 
Painter and poet are proud in the 
artist-list enrolled: — 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of 
the will that can. 
Existent behind all laws, that made 
them and, lo, they are! 50 

And I know not if, save in this, such gift 
be allowed to man 
That out of three sounds he frame, not 
a fourth sound, but a star. 
Consider it well: each tone of our scale in 
itself is naught: 
It is everywhere in the world — loud, 
soft, and all is said: 
Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in 
my thought: 55 

And there! Ye have heard and seen: 
consider and bow the head! 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music 
I reared; 
Gone! and the good tears start, the 
praises that come too slow; 
For one is assured at first, one scarce can 
say that he feared. 
That he even gave it a thought, the 
gone thing was to go. 60 

Never to be again! But many more of 
the kind 
As good, nay, better perchance: is this 
your comfort to me? 



BROWNING 



629 



To me, who must be saved because I cling 
with my mind 
To the same, same self, same love, 
same God: ay, what was, shall be. 

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, 
the ineffable Name? ' 65 

Builder and maker, thou, of houses not 
made with hands! 
What, have fear of change from thee who 
art ever the same? 
Doubt that thy power can fill the heart 
that thy power expands? 
There shall never be one lost good! What 
was, shall live as before; 
The evil is null, is naught, is silence 
implying sound; 70 

What was good shall be good, with, for 
evil, so much good more; 
On the earth the broken arcs; in the 
heaven a perfect round. 

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed 
of good shall exist; 
Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, 
nor good, nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each sur- 
vives for the melodist 75 
When eternity affirms the conception 
of an hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic 
for earth too hard. 
The passion that left the ground to lose 
itself in the sky. 
Are music sent up to God by the lover and 
the bard; 
Enough that he heard it once: we shall 
hear it by and by. 80 

And what is our failure here but a tri- 
umph's evidence 
For the fullness of the days? Have 
we withered or agonized? 
Why else was the pause prolonged but 
that singing might issue thence? 
Why rushed the discords in, but that 
harmony should be prized? 
Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow 
to clear, 85 

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme 
of the weal and woe: 
But God has a few of us whom he whispers 
in the ear; 
The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis 
we musicians know. 



Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes 
her reign: 
I will be patient and proud, and soberly 
acquiesce. 90 

Give me the keys. I feel for the common 
chord again. 
Sliding by semitones till I sink to the 
minor, — yes, 
And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on 
alien ground, 
Surve3dng awhile the heights I rolled 
from into the deep; 
Which, hark, I have dared and done, for 
my resting-place is found, 95 

The C Major of this life: so, now I will 
try to sleep. 



RABBI BEN EZRA 

Grow old along with me! 

The best is yet to be. 

The last of life, for which the first was 

made: 
Our times are in his hand 
Who saith, "A whole I planned, 5 

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, 

nor be afraid!" 

Not that, amassing flowers, 
Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, 
Which lily leave and then as best re- 
call?" 
Not that, admiring stars, 10 

It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 
Mine be some figured flame which blends, 
transcends them all!" 

Not for such hopes and fears 
Annulling youth's brief years. 
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! 15 
Rather I prize the doubt 
Low kinds exist without. 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a 
spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed. 
Were man but formed to feed 20 

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men; 
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt 
the maw-crammed beast? 



630 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Rejoice we are allied 25 

To that which doth provide 
And not partake, effect and not receive! 
A spark disturbs our clod; 
Nearer we hold of God 
Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I 
must believe. 30 

Then, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough, 

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but 

go! 
Be our joys three-parts pain! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain; 35 

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never 

grudge the throe! 

For thence, — a paradox 
Which comforts while it mocks, — 
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 
What I aspired to be, 40 

And was not, comforts me: 
A brute I might have been, but would 
not sink i' the scale. 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh has soul to suit, 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs 

want play? 45 

To man, propose this test — 
Thy body at its best, 
How far can that project thy soul on its 

lone way? 

Yet gifts should prove their use: 
I own the Past profuse 50 

Of power each side, perfection every turn : 
Eyes, ears took in their dole, 
Brain treasured up the whole; 
Should not the heart beat once, "How 
good to live and learn?" 

Not once beat, "Praise be thine! 55 

I see the whole design, 
I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too; 
Perfect I call thy plan: 
Thanks that I was a man ! 
Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what 
thou shalt do!" 60 

For pleasant is this flesh; 
Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for 
rest: 



Would we some prize might hold 
To match those manifold 65 

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as 
we did best! 

Let us not always say, 

"Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon 

the whole!" 
As the bird wings and sings, 70 

Let us cry, "All good things 
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, 

than flesh helps soul!" 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage. 

Life's struggle having so far reached its 

term: 75 

Thence shall I pass, approved^ 
A man, for aye removed 
From the developed brute; a God though 

in the germ. 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 80 

Once more on my adventure brave and 

new: 
Fearless and unpeiplexed, 
When I wage battle next. 
What weapons to select, what armor to 

indue.^ 

Youth ended, I shall try 85 

My gain or loss thereby; 
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : 
And I shall weigh the same. 
Give life its praise or blame: 
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, 
being old. 90 

For note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory from the 

gray: 
A whisper from the west 
Shoots — "Add this to the rest, 95 

Take it and try its worth: here dies 

another day." 

So, still within this life. 
Though lifted o'er its strife. 
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at 
last, 

1 proved. ^ put on. 



BROWNING 



631 



"This rage was right i' the main, 100 

That acquiescence vain: 
The Future I may face now I have proved 
the Past." 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to- 
day: 105 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the 
tool's true play. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth, no 

Toward making, than repose on aught 

found made: 
So, better, age, exempt 
From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death 

nor be afraid! 

Enough now, if the Right 115 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand 

thine own. 
With knowledge absolute, 
Subject to no dispute 
From fools that crowded youth, nor let 

thee feel alone. 120 

Be there, for once and all. 
Severed great minds from small, 
Announced to each his station in the 

Past! 
Was I, the world arraigned, 
Were they, my soul disdained, 125 

Right? Let age speak the truth and give 

us peace at last! 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 

Ten men love what I hate. 

Shun what I follow, slight what I re- 
ceive; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 130 

Match me: we all surmise. 

They this thing, and I that: whom shall 
my soul believe? 

Not on the vulgar mass 
Called "work," must sentence pass, 
Things done, that took the eye and had the 
price; 135 



O'er which, from level stand. 
The low world laid its hand, 
Found straightway to its mind, could 
value in a trice: 

But all the world's coarse thumb 
And finger failed to plumb, 140 

So passed in making up the main account ; 
All instincts immature. 
All purposes unsure. 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled 
the man's amount: 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 145 

Into a narrow act. 

Fancies that broke through language and 

escaped ; 
All I could never be, 
All, men ignored in me, 
This I was worth to God, whose wheel the 

pitcher shaped. 150 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 

That metaphor! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our 

clay, — 
Thou, to whom fools propound. 
When the wine makes its round, 155 

"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past 

gone, seize to-day!" 

Fool! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God 

stand sure: 
What entered into thee, 160 

That was, is, and shall be: 
Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter 

and clay endure. 

He fixed thee 'mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance. 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst 

fain arrest: 165 

Machinery just meant 
To give thy soul its bent, 
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently 

impressed. 

What though the earlier grooves. 
Which ran the laughing loves 17a 

Around thy base, no longer pause and 
press? 



632 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



What though, about thy rim, 
Skull-things in order grim 
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the 
sterner stress? 

Look not thou down but up! 175 

To uses of a cup. 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trum- 
pet's peal. 

The new wine's foaming flow, 

The Master's lips aglow! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what 
needst thou with earth's wheel? 180 

But I need, now as then. 

Thee, God, who mouldest men; 

And since, not even while the whirl was 

worst. 
Did I — to the wheel of life 
With shapes and colors rife, 185 

Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake 

thy thirst: 

So, take and use thy work. 

Amend what flaws may lurk. 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings 
past the aim ! 

My times be in thy hand! 190 

Perfect the cup as planned! 

Let age approve of youth, and death com- 
plete the same! 



EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep- 
time. 
When you set your fancies free, 
Will they pass to where — by death, fools 

think, imprisoned — 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom 
you loved so, — 

— Pity me? 5 

Oh, to love so, be so loved, yet so mis- 
taken ! 
What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the 

unmanly? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I 
drivel 

— Being — who? 10 



One who never turned his back but 
marched breast forward, 
Never doubted clouds would break. 
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, 

wrong would triumph. 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight 
better. 

Sleep to wake. 15 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's 
work-time 
Greet the unseen with a cheer ! 
Bid him forward, breast and back as 

either should be, 
"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — fight 
on, fare ever 

There as here!" 20 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

(1806-1861) 

SONNETS FROM THE 
PORTUGUESE 



I thought once how Theocritus had sung 
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished- 

for years,. 
Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: 
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, s 
I saw in gradual vision through my tears. 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy 

years. 
Those of my own life, who by turns had 

flung 
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 

'ware, 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 
Behind me, and drew me backward by 

the hair; n 

And a voice said in mastery while I 

strove, 
" Guess now who holds thee? "—"Death! " 

I said. But there. 
The silver answer rang: "Not Death, but 

Love." 

vn 

The face of all the world is changed, I 

think, 
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy 

soul 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



^2>Z 



Move still, oh, still, beside me as they stole 
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
Of obvious death, where I, who thought 

to sink, 5 

Was caught up into love and taught the 

whole 
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole 
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink. 
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee 

anear. 
The names of country, heaven, are 

changed away lo 

For where thou art or shalt be, there or 

here; 
And this — this lute and song — loved 

yesterday, 
(The singing angels know) are only dear 
Because thy name moves right in what 

they say. 

XIV 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say, 
" I love her for her smile — her look — her 

way 
Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes 

brought 5 

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day;" — 
For these things in themselves. Beloved, 

may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, 

so wrought. 
May be unwrought so. Neither love me 

for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks 

dry: lo 

A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love 

thereby. 
But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou may'st love on through love's 

eternity. 

XXVI 

I lived mth visions for my company. 
Instead of men and women, years ago, 
And found them gentle mates, nor thought 

to know 
A sweeter music than they played to me. 
But soon their trailing purple was not free 
Of this world's dust — their lutes did silent 

grow, 6 

And I myself grew faint and l)lind l)el()\v 



Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst 

come — to be, 
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining 

fronts. 
Their songs, their splendors (better, yet 

the same, lo 

As river water, hallowed into fonts) 
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame 
My soul with satisfaction of all wants — 
Because God's gifts put man's best dreams 

to shame. 

XLin 
How do I love thee? Let me count the 

ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and 

height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of 

sight 
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of everyday's s 
Most quiet need, by sun and candle- 

Ught. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from 

Praise. 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's 

faith. lo 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, — I love thee with 

the breath. 
Smiles, tears, of all my Ufe! — and, if God 

choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 

Do ye hear the children weeping, my 
brothers. 
Ere the sorrow comes with years? 
They are leaning their young heads against 
their mothers, 
And that cannot stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the 
meadows, 5 

The young birds are chirping in the 
nest. 
The young fawns are playing with the 
shadows, 
The young flowers are blowing to- 
ward the west — 



634 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



But the young, young children, O my 
brothers. 
They are weeping bitterly! lo 

They are weeping in the playtime of the 
others, 
In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in 
the sorrow 
Why their tears are falling so? 
The old man may weep for his to- 
morrow IS 
Which is lost in Long Ago; 
The old tree is leafless in the forest. 

The old year is ending in the frost, 
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest. 
The old hope is hardest to be lost: 20 
But the young, young children, my 
brothers. 
Do you ask them why they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
mothers, 
In our happy Fatherland? 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 25 

And their looks are sad to see. 
For the man's hoary anguish draws and 
presses 
Down the cheeks of infancy; 
"Your old earth," they say, "is very 
dreary; 
Our young feet," they say, "are very 
weak; 30 

Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — 
Our grave-rest is very far to seek: 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 
children, 
For the outside earth is cold. 
And we young ones stand without, in 
our bewildering, 35 

And the graves are for the old. 
True," say the children, "it may happen 

That we die before our time: 
Little Alice died last year, her grave is 
shapen 
Like a snowball, in the rime.^ 40 

" We looked into the pit prepared to take 
her: 
Was no room for any work in the 
close clay! 

» frost. ' 



From the sleep wherein she lieth none 
will wake her 
Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.' 
If you listen by that grave, in sun and 
shower, 45 

With your ear down, little Alice never 
cries; 
Could we see her face, be sure we should 
not know her. 
For the smile has time for growing 
in her eyes: 
And merry go her moments, lulled and 
stilled in 
The shroud by the kirk-chime. 50 
It is good when it happens," say the chil- 
dren, 
"That we die before our time." 

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking 

Death in life, as best to have: 
They are binding up their hearts away 
from breaking, 55 

With a cerement from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and from 
the city. 
Sing out, children, as the little 
thrushes do; 
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow- 
cowslips pretty. 
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let 
them through! 60 

But they answer, "Are your cowslips of 
the meadows 
Like our weeds anear the mine? 
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- 
shadows. 
From your pleasures fair and fine! 

"For oh," say the children, "we are 
weary, 65 

And we cannot run or leap; 
If we cared for any meadows, it were 
merely 
To drop down in them and sleep. 
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping. 
We fall upon our faces, trying to go; 70 
And, underneath our heavy eyelids droop- 
ing, 
The reddest flower would look as 
pale as snow. 
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, 

Through the coal-dark, underground; 

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 75 

In the factories, round and round. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



635 



''For, all day, the wheels are droning, 
turning; 
Their wind comes in our faces, 
Till our hearts turn our heads, with pulses 
burning. 
And the walls turn in their places: 80 
Turns the sky in the high window, blank 
and reeling. 
Turns the long light that drops adown 
the wall, 
Turn the black flies that crawl along the 
ceiling: 
All are turning, all the day, and we 
with all. 
And all day the iron wheels are dron- 
ing: 85 
And sometimes we could pray, 
'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad 
moaning) 
'Stop! be silent for to-day!'" 

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other 
breathing 
For a moment, mouth to mouth! 90 
Let them touch each other's hands, in a 
fresh wreathing 
Of their tender human youth! 
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 
Is not all the life God fashions or re- 
veals: 
Let them prove their living souls against 
the notion 95 

That they live in you, or under you, 
wheels! 
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward. 
Grinding life down from its mark; 
And the children's souls, which God is 
calling sunward. 
Spin on blindly in the dark. 100 

Now tell the poor young children, my 
brothers. 
To look up to Him and pray; 
So the blessed One who blesseth all the 
others. 
Will bless them another day. 
They answer, "Who is God that He 
-hould hear us, 105 

While the rushing of the iron wheels 
is stirred? 
When we sob aloud, the human creatures 
near us 
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not 
a word. 



And we hear not (for the wheels in their 
resounding) 
Strangers speaking at the door: no 
Is it likely God, with angels singing round 
Him, 
Hears our weeping any more? 

"Two words, indeed, of praying we re- 
member; 
And at midnight's hour of harm, 
'Our Father,' looking upward in the 
chamber, 115 

We say softly for a charm. 
We know no other words, except 'Our 
Father,' 
And we think that, in some pause of 
angels' song, 
God may pluck them with the silence 
sweet to gather, 
And hold both within His right hand 
which is strong. 120 

'Our Father!' If He heard us. He would 
surely 
(For they call Him good and mild) 
Answer, smiling down the steep world 
very purely, 
'Come and rest with me, my child.' 

"But no!" say the children, weeping 
faster, 125 

"He is speechless as a stone: 
And they tell us, of His image is the 
master 
Who commands us to work on. 
Go to!" say the children, — "Up in 
Heaven, 
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are 
all we find: 130 

Do not mock us; grief has made us un- 
believing: 
We look up for God, but tears have 
made us bhnd." 
Do you hear the children weeping and 
disproving, 
my brothers, what ye preach? 
For God's possible is taught by His 
world's lo\dng, 135 

And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before 
you! 
They are weary ere they run; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor 
the glory 
Which is brighter than the sun: 140 



636 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



They know the grief of man, without its 
wisdom; 
They sink in man's despair, without 
its calm; 
And slaves, without the liberty in Christ- 
dom, 
Are martyrs, by the pang without 
the palm: 
Are worn as if with age, yet unretriev- 
ingly 145 

The harvest of its memories cannot 
reap, — 
Are orphans of the earthly love and 
heavenly. 
Let them weep! let them weep! 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their look is dread to see, 150 
For they mind you of their angels in high 
places. 
With eyes turned on Deity. 
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel 
nation, 
Will you stand, to move the world, 
on a child's heart, — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpita- 
tion, 155 
And tread onward to your throne 
amid the mart? 
Our blood splashes upward, O gold- 
heaper. 
And your purple shows your path! 
But the child's sob in the silence curses 
deeper 
Than the strong man in his wrath."i6o 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 
Down in the reeds by the river? 

Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a 
goat, 

And breaking the golden lilies afloat 5 
With the dragon-fly on the river? 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river; 

The limpid water turbidly ran 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 10 

And the dragon-fly had fled away. 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 



High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 

While turbidly flowed the river; 
And hacked and hewed as a great god 
can 15 

With his hard bleak steel at the patient 

reed. 
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 
(How tall it stood in the river!), 20 

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a 
man, 

Steadily from the outside ring, 

And notched the poor dry empty thing 
In holes, as he sat by the river. 

"This is the way," laughed the great god 
Pan 25 

(Laughed w^hile he sat by the river), 
"The only way, since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed." 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the 
reed. 
He blew in power by the river. 30 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! 

Piercing sweet by the river! 
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! 
The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon- 
fly _ 35 

Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan 

To laugh, as he sits by the river. 

Making a poet out of a man: 39 

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain — 

For the reed which grows never more again 

As a reed with the reeds of the river. 



EDWARD FITZGERALD (1809-1883) 
RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM 



Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into 

flight 
The Stars before him from the Field of 

Night, 
Drives Night along with them from 

Heav'n, and strikes 
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light. 



FITZGERALD 



637 



II 
Before the phantom of False morning 
died, 5 

Methought a Voice within the Tavern 
cried, 
"When all the Temple is prepared 
within. 
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper out- 
side?" 

in 

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood 

before 
The Tavern shouted — "Open then the 

Door! 10 

You know how little while we have to 

stay. 
And, once departed, may return no more." 

IV 

Now the New Year reviving old Desires, 
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, 
Where the White Hand or Moses on 
the Bough 15 

Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground sus- 
pires. 

v 

Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose, 

And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where 

no one knows; 

But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine, 

And many a Garden by the Water blows. 20 

VI 

And David's lips are lockt; but in divine 
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! 

Wine! 
Red Wine!" — the Nightingale cries to 

the Rose 
That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine. 

vn 

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of 

Spring 25 

Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: 

The Bird of Time has but a Httle way 
To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing. 

VIII 

WTiether at Naishapur or Babylon, 
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter 
run, 30 



The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by 
drop, 
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one. 

IX 

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you 
say; 

Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yester- 
day? 
And this first Summer month that 
brings the Rose 35 

Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away. 



Well, let it take them! What have we to 

do 
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru? 
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they 

will, 
Or Hatim call to Supper — heed not you. 40 

XI 

With me along the strip, of Herbage strown 
That just divides the desert from the 
sown. 
Where name of Slave and Sultan is 
forgot — 
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden 
Throne! 

xn 

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 45 
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and 
Thou 
Beside me singing in the Wilderness — 
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! 

xin 
Some for the Glories of This World; and 

some 
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; 50 
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit 

go, 
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! 

XIV 

Look to the blowing Rose about us — "Lo, 
Laughing," she says, "into the world I 

blow, 
At once the silken tassel of my Purse 55 
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden 

throw." 



638 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



XV 

And those who husbanded the Golden 

Grain, 
And those who flung it to the winds Hke 

Rain, 
AHke to no such aureate Earth are 

turn'd 
As, buried once, Men want dug up again. 60 

XVI 

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts 

upon 
Turns Ashes — or it prospers; and anon, 
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty 

Face, 
Lighting a little hour or two — was gone. 

XVII 

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai^ 65 
Whose Portals are alternate Night and 

Day, 
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp 
Abode his destin'd Hour, and went his 

way. 

XVIII 

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep 
The Courts w^here Jamshyd gloried and 

drank deep: 70 

And Bahram, that great Hunter — the 

Wild Ass 
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break 

his Sleep. 

XIX 

I sometimes think that never blows so red 
The Rose as where some buried Caesar 

bled; 
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears 
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely 

Head. 76 

XX 

And this reviving Herb whose tender 
Green 

Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean — 
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows 

From what once lovely Lip it springs un- 
seen ! 80 

XXI 

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears 
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears: 

> inn. 



To-morrowl — Why, To-morrow I may 
be 
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand 
Years. 

XXII 

For some we loved, the loveliest and the 
best 85 

That from his Vintage rolling Time hath 
prest, 
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two 
before. 

And one by one crept silently to rest. 

XXIII 

And we that now make merry in the Room 
They left, and Summer dresses in new 

bloom, 90 

Ourselves must we beneath the Couch 

of Earth 
Descend — ourselves to make a couch — for 

whom? 

XXIV 

Ah, make the most of what we yet may 

spend. 
Before we too into the Dust descend; 

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to He, 95 
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — 

sans End! 

XXV 

AHke for those who for To-day prepare. 
And those that after some To-morrow 

stare, 
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness 

cries, 
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor 

There." 100 

XXVI 

Why, all the Saints and Sages who dis- 

cuss'd 
Of the Two Worlds so wisely — they are 

thrust 
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words 

to Scorn 
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt 

with Dust. 

XXVII 

Myself when young did eagerly frequent 
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argu- 
ment 106 
About it and about: but evermore 
Came out by the same door where in T 
went. 



FITZGERALD 



639 



XXVIII 

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, 
And with mine own hand wrought to make 

it grow; no 

And this was all the Harvest that I 

reap'd — 
''I came like Water, and like Wind I go." 

XXIX 

Into this Universe, and Why not knowing 

Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing; 

And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, 

I know not Whither, willy-nilly, blowing. 

XXX 

What, without asking, hither hurried 
Whence? 1 1 7 

And, without asking. Whither hurried 
hence? 
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine 

Must drown the memory of that insolence! 

XXXI 

Up from Earth's Centre through the 
Seventh Gate 121 

I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate. 
And many a Knot unravell'd by the 
Road; 

But not the Master-knot of Human Fate. 

XXXII 

There was the Door to which I found no 
Key; _ 125 

There was the Veil through which I might 
not see: 
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee 

There was — and then no more of Thee 
and Me. 

xxxin 

Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that 

mourn 
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn; 130 
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs 

reveal'd 
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and 

Morn. 

xxxiv 
Then of the Thee in Me who works be- 
hind 
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find 



A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I 
heard, 135 

As from Without — "The Me within 
Thee blind!" 

XXXV 

Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn 
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn: 
And Lip to Lip it murmur 'd — "While 

you live. 
Drink! — for, once dead, you never shall 

return." 140 

xxxvi 

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive 
Articulation answer'd, once did live. 
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I 
kiss'd, 
How many Kisses might it take — and give! 

xxxvn 

For I remember stopping by the way 145 
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay: 

And with its all-obliterated Tongue 
It murmur'd — "Gently, Brother, gently. 



pray! 



xxxviii 



And has not such a Story from of Old 
Down Man's successive generations roll'd 
Of such a clod of saturated Earth 151 
Cast by the Maker into Human mould? 

xxxix 

And not a drop that from our Cups we 

throw 
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below 
To quench the fire of Anguish in some 

Eye 155 

There hidden — far beneath, and long ago. 

XL 

As then the Tulip for her morning sup 
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks 

up, 
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n 
To Earth invert you — like an empty 

Cup. 160 

XLI 

Perplext no more with Human or Divine, 
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign. 
And lose your fingers in the tresses of 
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine. 



640 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



XLII 

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you 
press, 165 

End in what All begins and ends in — Yes; 
Think then you are To-day what 
Yesterday 

You were — To-morrow you shall not be 
less. 

XLni 
So when the Angel of the darker Drink 
At last shall find you by the river- 
brink, 170 
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul 
Forth to your Lips to quaff — you shall not 
shrink. 

XLIV 

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, 
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, 
Were 't not a Shame — were 't not a 
Shame for him 175 

In this clay carcase crippled to abide? 

XLV 

'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's 

rest 
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; 

The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash^ 
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest. 

XL VI 

And fear not lest Existence closing 
your 181 

Account, and mine, should know the like 
no more; 
The Eternal Saki" from that Bowl has 
pour'd 

Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour. 

XLvn 

When You and I behind the Veil are 
past, 185 

Oh, but the long, long while the World 
shall last 
Which of our Coming and Departure 
heeds 

As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast. 

XLVIII 

A Moment's Halt — a momentary taste 
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste — 



' attendant. 



2 wine-bearer. 



And Lo! — the phantom Caravan has 
reach'd 191 

The Nothing it set out from — Oh, make 
haste ! 

XLIX 

Would you that spangle of Existence spend 

About THE SECRET — quick about it. Friend ! 

A Hair perhaps divides the False and 

True — 195 

And upon what, prithee, does life depend? 



A Hair perhaps divides the False and True; 

Yes; and a single Alif^ were the clue — 
Could you but find it — to the Treasure- 
house, 
And perad venture to The Master too; 200 

LI 

Whose secret Presence, through Creation's 
veins 

Running Quicksilver-like eludes your 
pains; 
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi;^ 
and 

They change and perish all — but He re- 
mains ; 

Ln 

A moment guess'd — then back behind the 
Fofd 205 

Immerst of Darkness round the Drama 
roll'd 
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity, 

He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold. 

LIII 

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor 
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening 

Door, 210 

You gaze To-day, while You are You — ■ 

how then 
To-morrow, when You shall be You no 

more? 

LIV 

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pur- 
suit 
Of This and That endeavor and dispute; 

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape 

Than sadden after none, or bitter. 

Fruit. 216 



3 the letter A. 



^ from fish to moon. 



FITZGERALD 



641 



LV 

You know, my Friends, with what a brave 

Carouse 
I made a Second Marriage in my house; 
Divorced old barren Reason from my 

Bed, 
And took the Daughter of the Vine to 

Spouse. 220 

LVI 

For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule 

and Line, 
And "Up-and-down" by Logic I define, 

Of all that one should care to fathom, I 
Was never deep in anything but — Wine. 

LVII 

Ah, but my Computations, People say, 225 

Reduced the Year to better reckoning? — 

Nay, 

'Twas only striking from the Calendar 

Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday. 

LVIII 

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape. 
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel 

Shape 230 

Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and 

He bid me taste of it; and 't was — the 

Grape ! 

LIX 

The Grape that can with Logic absolute 
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects con- 
fute: 
The sovei'eign Alchemist that in a 
trice _ 235 

Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute: 



LX 

The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing 

Lord, 
That all the misbelieving and black Horde 
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the 

Soul 
Scatters before him with his whirlwind 

Sword. 240 

LXI 

Why, be this Juice the growth of God, 

who dare 
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a 

Snare? 



A Blessing, we should use it, should we 
not? 
And if a Curse — why, then, Who set it 
there? 

LXII 

I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must, 245 
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on 

trust. 
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner 

Drink, 
To fill the Cup — when crumbled into 

Dust! 

LXIII 

Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! 
One thing at least is certain — This Life 

flies; 250 

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies ; 

The Flower that once has blown for ever 

dies. 

LXIV 

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who 

Before us pass'd the door of Darkness 

through, 

Not one returns to tell us of the Road, 

Which to discover we must travel too. 256 

LXV 

The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd 
Who rose before us, and as Prophets 

burn'd. 
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from 

Sleep 
They told their comrades, and to Sleep re- 

turn'd. 260 

LXVI 

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, 
Some letter of that After-life to spell: 

And by and by my Soul return'd to me, 
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and 
Hell:" 

LXVII 

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, 265 
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire, 
Cast on the Darkness into which Our- 
selves, 
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire. 

LXVIII 

We are no other than a mo\ang row 
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and 
go 270 



642 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern 
held 
In Midnight by the Master of the Show; 

LXIX 

But helpless Pieces of the Game He 

plays 
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and 

Days; 
Hither and thither moves, and checks, 

and slays, 275 

And one by one back in the Closet lays. 

LXX 

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and 

Noes, 
But Here or There as strikes the Player 

goes; 
And He that toss'd you down into the 

Field, 
He knows about it all — he knows — HE 

knows! 280 

LXXI 

The Mo\nng Finger writes; and, having 

writ. 
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. 

LXXII 

And that inverted Bowl they call the 
Sky, _ _ 285 

Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and 
die. 
Lift not your hands to // for help — for 
It 

As impotently moves as you or I. 

Lxxni 
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last 

Man knead, 
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the 
Seed: 290 

And the first Morning of Creation 
wrote 
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall 
read. 

LXXIV 

Yesterday This Day's Madness did pre- 
pare; 

To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or De- 
spair: 



Drink! for you know not whence you 
came, nor why: 295 

Drink! for you know not why you go, nor 
where. 

LXXV 

I tell you this — When, started from the 

Goal, 
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal 
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari^ they 

flung, 
In my predestined Plot of Dust and 

Soul 300 

LXXVI 

The Vine had struck a fibre: which about 
If clings my Being — let the Dervish flout; 
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key, 
That shall unlock the Door he howls with- 
out. 

LXXVII 

And this I know: whether the one True 
Light 305 

Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me 
quite. 
One Flash of It within the Tavern 
caught 

Better than in the Temple lost outright. 

, Lxxvin 

What ! out of senseless Nothing to provoke 
A conscious Something to resent the 
yoke 310 

Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain 
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke! 

LXXIX 

What! from his helpless Creature be re- 
paid 

Pure Gold for what he lent him dross- 
allay'd— 
Sue for a Debt we never did contract, 315 

And cannot answer — Oh, the sorry trade! 

LXXX 

Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with 

gin 
Beset the Road I was to wander in. 
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil 

round 
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to 

Sin! 320 

1 The Pleiads and Jupiter. 



FITZGERALD 



643 



LXXXI 

Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst 

make, 
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: 
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of 

Man 
Is blacken'd — Man's forgiveness give— 

and take! 



LXXXII 

As under cover of departing Day 325 

Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away, 

Once more within the Potter's house 

alone 

I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay. 

LXXXIII 

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and 

small, 
That stood along the floor and by the 

wall; 330 

And some loquacious Vessels were; and 

some 
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all. 

LXXXIV 

Said one among them — "Surely not in 

vain 
My substance of the common Earth was 

ta'en 
And to this Figure moulded, to be 

broke, 335 

Or trampled back to shapeless Earth 

again." 

LXXXV 

Then said a Second — "Ne'er a peevish 

Boy 
Would break the Bowl from which he 

drank in joy; 
And He that with his hand the Vessel 

made 
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy." 340 

LXXXVI 

After a momentary silence spake 
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make: 
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry: 
What! did the Hand then of the Potter 
shake?" 



Lxxxvn 

Whereat some of the loquacious Lot — 345 
I think a Stifi pipkin — waxing hot — 
"All this of Pot and Potter— Tell me 

then. 
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the 

Pot? " 

Lxxxvni 

"Why," said another, "Some there are 

who tell 
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell 350 
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making — 

Pish! 
He 's a Good Fellow, and 't w\\\ all be well." 

LXXXEX 

"Well," murmur'd one, "Let whoso make 

or buy, 
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry: 
But fill me with the old familiar Jiuce, 355 
Methinks I might recover by and by." 

xc 

So while the Vessels one by one were 

speaking. 
The little Moon look'd in that all were 

seeking: 
And then they jogg'd each other, 

"Brother! Brother! 
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a- 

creaking!" 360 



xci 
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life pro- 
vide. 
And wash the Body whence the Life has 
died. 
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, 
By some not unfrequented Garden-side. 

XCII 

That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare 365 
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air 
As not a True-believer passing by 
But shall be overtaken unaware. 

XCIII 
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long 
Have done my credit in this World much 
wrong: 370 



644 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Have drown 'd my Glory in a shallow 
Cup, 
And sold my Reputation for a Song. 

xciv 

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before 

I swore — but was I sober when I swore? 

And then and then came Spring, and 

Rose-in-hand 375 

My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. 

xcv 

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, 

And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor — 

Well, 

I wonder often what the Vintners buy 

One half so precious as the stuff they sell. 380 

xcvi 
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with 

the Rose! 
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript 
should close! 
The Nightingale that in the branches 
sang, 
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who 
knows! 

XCVII 

Would but the Desert of the Fountain 

yield _ 385 

One glimpse — if dimly, yet indeed, re- 

veal'd. 
To which the fainting Traveller might 

spring. 
As springs the trampled herbage of the 

field. 

XCVIII 

Would but some winged Angel ere too 

late 
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, 390 
And make the stern Recorder otherwise 
Enregister, or quite obliterate! 

XCIX 

Ah Love! could you and I with Him con- 
spire 

To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things 
Entire, 
Would not we shatter it to bits — and 
then pqs 

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's desire! 



Yon rising Moon that looks for us again — 
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; 

How oft hereafter rising look for us 
Through this same Garden — and for one in 
vain! 



400 



CI 



And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass 
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the 

Grass, 
And in your joyous errand reach the 

spot 
Where I made One — turn down an empty 

Glass ! 

TAMAM^ 



THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881) 
From SARTOR RESARTUS 

Book III , Chapter 8 

NATURAL SUPERNATURALISM 

It is in his stupendous Section, headed 
Natural Supernaturalism, that the Pro- 
fessor first becomes a Seer; and, after long 
effort, such as we have witnessed, finally 
subdues under his feet the refractory 
Clothes-Philosophy, and takes victorious 
possession thereof. Phantasms enough he 
has had to struggle with; "Cloth- webs 
and Cob-webs," of Imperial Mantles, 
Superannuated Symbols, and what [to 
not; yet still did he courageously pierce 
through. Na}^, worst of all, two quite 
mysterious, world embracing Phantasms, 
Time and Space, have ever hovered 
round him, perplexing and bewildering; 
but with these also he now resolutely 
grapples, these also he victoriously rends 
asunder. In a word, he has looked fixedly 
on Existence, till, one after the other, its 
earthly hulls and garnitures have all [20 
melted away; and now, to his rapt vision, 
the interior celestial Holy of Holies lies 
disclosed. 

. . . This stupendous Section we, after 
long painful meditation, have found not 
to be unintelligible; but, on the con- 
trary, to grow clear, nay radiant, and 

1 the end. 



CARLYLE 



645 



all-illuminating. Let the reader, turning 
on it what utmost force of speculative 
intellect is in him, do his part; as we, [30 
by judicious selection and adjustment, 
shall study to do ours: 

"Deep has been, and is, the significance 
of Miracles," thus quietly begins the Pro- 
fessor; "far deeper perhaps than we 
imagine. Meanwhile, the question of 
questions were: What specially is a Mir- 
acle? To that Dutch King of Siam, an 
icicle had been a miracle; whoso had 
carried with him an air-pump and [40 
vial of vitriolic ether, might have worked 
a miracle. To my Horse, again, who un- 
happily is still more unscientific, do not 
I work a miracle, and magical 'Open 
sesame!^ every time I please to pay 
twopence and open for him an impas- 
sable Schlagbaum, or shut Turnpike? 

"'But is not a real Miracle simply a 
violation of the Laws of Nature?' ask 
several. Whom I answer by this [50 
new question: what are the Laws of 
Nature? To me perhaps the rising of one 
from the dead were no violation of these 
Laws, but a confirmation; were some far 
deeper Law, now first penetrated into, 
and by Spiritual Force, even as the rest 
have all been, brought to bear on us with 
its Material Force. 



"'But is it not the deepest Law of Na- 
ture that she be constant?' cries an [60 
illuminated class: 'Is not the Machine of 
the Universe fixed to move by unalter- 
able rules?' Probable enough, good 
friends: nay, I, too, must believe that 
the God, whom ancient inspired men 
assert to be 'without variableness or 
shadow of turning,' does indeed never 
change; that Nature, that the Universe, 
which no one whom it so pleases can be 
prevented from calling a Machine, [70 
does move by the most unalterable rules. 
And now of you too I make the old in- 
quiry: What those same unalterable 
rules, forming the complete Statute-Book 
of Nature, may possibly be? 

"They stand written in our Works of 
Science, say you; in the accumulated 
records of man's Experience? — Was man 
with his Experience present at the Crea- 



tion, then, to see how it all went on? [80 
Have any deepest scientific individuals 
yet dived down to the foundations of the 
Universe, and gauged everything there? 
Did the Maker take them into His coun- 
sel; that they read His ground-plan of 
the incomprehensible All; and can say. 
This stands marked therein, and no more 
than this? Alas! not in anywise! These 
scientific individuals have been nowhere 
but where we also are; have seen some [90 
handbreadths deeper than we see into the 
Deep that is infinite, without bottom as 
without shore. 



"System of Nature! To the wisest 
man, wide as is his vision. Nature remains 
of quite infinite depth, of quite infinite 
expansion; and all Experience thereof 
limits itself to some few computed cen- 
turies, and measured square-miles. The 
course of Nature's phases, on this our [100 
little fraction of a Planet, is partially 
known to us: but who knows what deeper 
courses these depend on; what infinitely 
larger Cycle (of causes) our little Epi- 
cycle revolves on? To the Minnow every 
cranny and pebble, and quality and acci- 
dent, of its little native Creek may have 
become familiar: but does the Minnow 
understand the Ocean Tides and periodic 
Currents, the Trade-winds, and Mon- [no 
soons, and Moon's Eclipses, — by all which 
the condition of its Uttle Creek is regulated, 
and may, from time to time (Mwmiracu- 
lously enough), be quite overset and re- 
versed? Such a minnow is Man; his 
Creek this Planet Earth; his Ocean the 
immeasurable All; his Monsoons and 
periodic Currents the mysterious Course 
of Providence through ^Eons of iEons. 

"We speak of the Volume of Na- [120 
ture: and truly a Volume it is, — whose 
Author and Writer is God. To read it! 
Dost thpu, does man, so much as well 
know the Alphabet thereof? . . . 

"Innumerable are the illusions and 
legerdemain-tricks of Custom: but of all 
these perhaps the cleverest is her knack 
of persuading us that the INIiraculous, 
by simple repetition, ceases to be Mir- 
aculous. True, it is by this means [130 
we live; for man must work as well as 



646 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



wonder: and herein is Custom so far a 
kind nurse, guiding him to his true benefit. 
But she is a fond foolish nurse, or rather 
we are false fooHsh nurslings, when, in 
our resting and reflecting hours, we pro- 
long the same deception. . . . 

''But deepest of all illusory Appear- 
ances, for hiding Wonder, as for many 
other ends, are your two grand funda- [140 
mental world-enveloping Appearances, 
Space and Time. These, as spun and 
woven for us from before Birth itself, to 
clothe our celestial Me for dwelling here, 
and yet to bHnd it, — lie all-embracing, as 
the universal canvas, or warp and woof, 
whereby all minor Illusions, in this Phan- 
tasm Existence, weave and paint them- 
selves. In vain, while here on Earth, 
shall you endeavor to strip them off; [150 
you can, at best, but rend them asunder 
for moments, and look through. 

"Fortunatus had a wishing Hat, which 
when he put on, and wished himself Any- 
where, behold he was There. By this 
means had Fortunatus triumphed over 
Space, he had annihilated Space; for him 
there was no Where, but all was Here. 
Were a Hatter to establish himself, in the 
Wahngasse of Weissnichtwo, and [160 
make felts of this sort for all mankind, 
what a world we should have of it! Still 
stranger, should, on the opposite side of 
the street, another Hatter establish him- 
self; and, as his fellow-craftsman made 
Space-annihilating Hats, make Time- 
annihilating! Of both would I purchase, 
were it with my last groschen, but chiefly 
of this latter. To clap-on your felt, and, 
simply by wishing that you were [170 
Axvywhere, straightway to be There! Next 
to clap-on your other felt, and simply 
by wishing that you were Knywhen, 
straightway to be Then! This were in- 
deed the grander: shooting at will from 
the Fire-Creation of the World to its 
Fire-Consummation ; here historically pres- 
ent in the First Century, conversing face 
to face with Paul and Seneca; there 
prophetically in the Thirty-first, con- [180 
versing also face to face with other Pauls 
and Senecas, who as yet stand hidden in 
the depth of that late Time! 

"Or thinkest thou, it were impossible, 
unimaginable? Is the Past annihilated. 



then, or only past; is the Future non- 
extant or only future? Those mystic 
faculties of thine, Memory and Hope, 
already answer: already through those 
mystic avenues, thou the Earth- [190 
blinded summonest both Past and Future, 
and communest with them, though as 
yet darkly, and with mute beckonings. 
The curtains of Yesterday drop down, 
the curtains of To-morrow roll up; but 
Yesterday and To-morrow both are. 
Pierce through the Time-Element, glance 
into the Eternal. Believe what thou 
findest written in the sanctuaries of 
Man's Soul, even as all Thinkers, in all [200 
ages, have devoutly read it there: that 
Time and Space are not God, but crea- 
tions of God; that with God as it is a 
universal Here, so is it an everlasting 
Now. 

"And seest thou therein any glimpse of 
Immortality? — O Heaven! Is the white 
Tomb of our Loved One, who died from 
our arms, and had to be left behind us 
there, which rises in the distance, like [210 
a pale, mournfully receding Milestone, to 
tell how many toilsome uncheered miles 
we have journeyed on alone, — but a pale 
spectral Illusion! Is the lost Friend still 
mysteriously Here, even as we are Here 
mysteriously with God! — Know of a 
truth that only the Time-shadows have 
perished, or are perishable; that the real 
Being of whatever was, and whatever is, 
and whatever will be, is even now and [220 
forever. This, should it unhappily seem 
new, thou mayst ponder at thy leisure; 
for the next twenty years, or the next 
twenty centuries: believe it thou must; 
understand it thou canst not. 

"That the Thought-forms, Space and 
Time, wherein, once for all, we are sent 
into this Earth to live, should condition 
and determine our whole Practical reason- 
ings, conceptions, and imagings or [230 
imaginings, — seems altogether fit, just, 
and unavoidable. But that they should, 
furthermore, usurp such sway over pure 
spiritual Meditation, and blind us to 
the wonder everywhere lying close on 
us, seems nowise so. Admit Space and 
Time to their due rank as Forms of 
Thought; nay, even, if thou wilt, to their 
quite undue rank of Realities: and con- 



CARLYLE 



647 



sider, then, with thyself how their [240 
thin disguises hide from us the brightest 
God-elif ulgences ! Thus, were it not mirac- 
ulous, could I stretch forth my hand and 
clutch the Sun? Yet thou seest me daily 
stretch forth my hand, and therewith 
clutch many a thing, and swing it hither 
and thither. Art thou a grown baby, 
then, to fancy that the Miracle lies in 
miles of distance, or in pounds avoir- 
dupois of weight; and not to see that [250 
the true inexplicable God-reveaHng Mir- 
acle lies in this, that I can stretch forth 
my hand at all; that I have free Force to 
clutch aught therewith? Innumerable 
other of this sort are the deceptions, and 
wonder-hiding stupefactions, which Space 
practices on us. 

"Still worse is it with regard to Time. 
Your grand anti-magician, and universal 
wonder-hider, is this same lying Time. [260 
Had we but the Time-annihilating Hat, 
to put on for once only, we should see 
ourselves in a World of Miracles, wherein 
all fabled or authentic Thaumaturgy, 
and feats of Magic, were outdone. But 
unhappily we have not such a Hat; and 
man, poor fool that he is, can seldom and 
scantily help himself without one. 

"Were it not wonderful, for instance, 
had Orpheus, or Amphion, built the [270 
walls of Thebes by the mere sound of his 
Lyre? Yet tell me, Who built these walls 
of Weissnichtwo; smnmoning out all the 
sandstone rocks, to dance along from the 
Stein-bruch (now a huge Troglodyte Chasm, 
with frightful green-mantled pools); and 
shape themselves into Doric and Ionic 
pillars, squared ashlar houses, and noble 
streets? Was it not the still higher 
Orpheus, or Orpheuses, who, in past [280 
centuries, by the divine Music of Wisdom, 
succeeded in civilizing man? Our highest 
Orpheus walked in Judea, eighteen hun- 
dred years ago: his sphere-melody, flowing 
in wild native tones, took captive the 
ravished souls of men; and, being of a truth 
sphere-melody, still flows and sounds, 
though now mth thousandfold accomplish- 
ments, and rich symphonies, through all our 
hearts; and modulates, and divinely [290 
leads them. Is that a wonder, which hap- 
pens in two hours; and does it cease to be 
wonderful if happening in two million? 



Not only was Thebes built by the music of 
an Orpheus; but without the music of some 
inspired Orpheus was no city ever built, 
no work that man glories in ever done. 

"Sweep away the Illusion of Time; 
glance, if thou have eyes, from the near 
moving-cause to its far-distant Mover: [300 
The stroke that came transmitted through 
a whole galaxy of elastic balls, was it 
less a stroke than if the last ball only 
had been struck, and sent flying? Oh, 
could I (with the Time-annihilating Hat) 
transport thee direct from the Beginnings 
to the Endings, how were thy eyesight 
unsealed, and thy heart set flaming in 
the Light-sea of celestial wonder! Then 
sawest thou that this fair Universe, [310 
were it in the meanest province thereof, 
is in very deed the star-domed City of 
God; that through every star, through 
every grass-blade, and most through every 
Living Soul, the glory of a present God 
still beams. But Nature, which is the 
Time-vesture of God, and reveals Him 
to the wise, hides Him from the foolish. 

"Again, could anything be more mirac- 
ulous than an actual authentic Ghost? [320 
The English Johnson longed, all his life, 
to see one; but could not, though he went 
to Cock Lane, and thence to the church- 
vaults, and tapped on coffins. Foolish 
Doctor! Did he never, with the mind's 
eye as well as with the body's, look round 
him into that full tide of human Life he 
so loved; did he never so much as look 
into Himself? The good Doctor was a 
Ghost, as actual and authentic as [330 
heart could wish; well-nigh a million of 
Ghosts were travelling the streets by his 
side. Once more I say, sweep away the 
illusion of Time; compress the threescore 
years into three minutes: what else was 
he, what else are we? Are we not Spirits, 
that are shaped into a body, into an Ap- 
pearance; and that fade away again into 
air, and Invisibility? This is no meta- 
phor, it is a simple scientific /ac/; we [340 
start out of Nothingness, take figure, and 
are Apparitions; round us, as round the 
veriest spectre, is Eternity; and to Eter- 
nity minutes are as years and aeons. Come 
there not tones of Love and Faith, as 
from celestial harp-strings, like the Song 
of beatified Souls? And again, do not we 



648 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



squeak and gibber (in our discordant, 
screech-owlish dcbatings and rocriminat- 
ings); and glide bodeful and feeble, [350 
and fearful; or uproar (pollcni), and revel 
in our mad Dance of the Dead, — till the 
scent of the morning-air summons us to 
our still Home; and dreamy Night be- 
comes awake and Day? Where now is 
Alexander of Macedon: does the steel 
Host, that yelled in fierce battle-shouts, 
at Issus and Arbela, remain behind him; 
or have they all \anished utterly, even as 
perturbed Goblins must? Napoleon [360 
too, and his Moscow Retreats and Auster- 
litz Campaigns! Was it all other than the 
veriest Spectre-hunt; which has now, 
with its howling tumult that made night 
hideous, flitted away? — Ghosts! There 
are nigh a thousand million walking the 
Earth openly at noontide; some half- 
hundred ha\'e vanished from it, some 
half-hundred have arisen in it, ere thy 
watch ticks once. [370 

"O Heaven, it is mysterious, it is 
awful to consider that we not only carry 
each a future Ghost within him; but are, 
in very deed, Ghosts! These Limbs, 
whence had we them; this stormy Force; 
this life-blood with its burning Passion? 
They are dust and shadow; a Shadow- 
system gathered round our Me; wherein 
through some moments or years, the 
Divine Essence is to be revealed in the [380 
Flesh. That warrior on his strong war- 
horse, fire flashes through his eyes; force 
dwells in his arm and heart; but warrior 
and war-horse are a vision; a revealed 
Force, nothing more. Stately they tread 
the Earth, as if it were a firm substance: 
fool! the Earth is but a film; it cracks in 
twain, and warrior and war-horse sink 
beyond plummet's sounding. Plummet's? 
Fantasy herself will not follow them. [300 
A little while ago they were not; a little 
while and they are not, their very ashes 
are not. 

"So has it been from the beginning, so 
wiU it be to the end. Generation after 
generation takes to itself the Form of a 
Body; and forth-issuing from Cimmerian 
Night, on Heaven's mission appears. 
What Force and Fire is in each he ex- 
pends: one grinding in the mill of In- [400 
dustry; one hunter-like climbing the 



giddy Alpine heights of Science; one 
madly dashed in pieces on the rocks of 
Strife, in war with his fellow: — and then 
the Heaven-sent is recalled; his earthly 
Vesture falls away, and soon even to 
Sense becomes a Vanished Shadow. Thus, 
like some wild-flaming, wild-thundering 
train of Heaven's Artillery, does this 
mysterious Mankind thunder and [410 
flame, in long-drawn, quick-succeeding 
grandeur, through the unknown Deep. 
Thus, like a God-created, fire-breathing 
Spirit-host, we emerge from the Inane; 
haste stormfuUy across the astonished 
Earth; then plunge again into the Inane. 
Earth's mountains are levelled, and her 
seas filled up, in our passage: can the 
Earth, which is but dead and a vision, 
resist Spirits which have reality and [420 
are alive? On the hardest adamant some 
footprint of us is stamped-in; the kist 
Rear of the host will read traces of the 
earliest Van. But whence? — O Heaven, 
whither? Sense knows not; Faith knows 
not; only that it is through Mystery to 
Mystery, from God and to God. 

'We are such stujf 
As Dreams are made on, and our little 
Life [430 

Is rounded with a sleep!'" 



From PAST AND PRESENT 

Book III, Chapter XI 

Labor 

For there is a perennial nobleness, and 
even sacredness, in Work. Were he 
never so benighted, forgetful of his high 
calling, there is alwa}^ hope in a man that 
actually and earnestly works: in Idleness 
alone is there perpetual despair. Work, 
never so Mammonish, mean, is in com- 
munication with Nature; the real desire 
to get Work done will itself lead one more 
and more to truth, to Nature's ap)- [10 
pointments and regulations, which are 
truth. 

The latest Gospel in this world is, 
Know thy work and do it. "Know thy- 
self": long enough has that poor "self" 
of thine tormented thee; thou wflt never 



CARLYLE 



649 



get to "know" it, I. believe! Think it 
not thy business, this of knowing thyself; 
thou art an unknowable individual: know 
what thou canst work at; and work [20 
at it, like a Hercules! That will be thy 
better plan. 

It has been written, "an endless sig- 
nificance lies in Work"; a man perfects 
himself by working. Foul jungles are 
cleared away, fair seedfields rise instead, 
and stately cities; and withal the man 
himself first ceases to be a jungle and foul 
unwholesome desert thereby. Consider 
how, even in the meanest sorts of [30 
Labor, the whole soul of a man is com- 
posed into a kind of real harmony, the 
instant he sets himself to work! Doubt, 
Desire, Sorrow, Remorse, Indignation, 
Despair itself, all these like hell-dogs lie 
beleaguering the soul of the poor day- 
worker as of every man: but he bends 
himself with free valor against his task, 
and all these are stilled, all these shrink 
murmuring far off into their caves. [40 
The man is now a man. The blessed 
glow of Labor in him, is it not as purifying 
fire, wherein all poison is burnt up, and 
of sour smoke itself there is made bright 
blessed flame! 

Destiny, on the whole, has no other 
way of cultivating us. A formless Chaos, 
once set it revolving, grows round and 
ever rounder; ranges itself, by mere force 
of gravity, into strata, spherical [50 
courses; is no longer a Chaos, but a round 
compacted World. What would become 
of the Earth, did she cease to revolve? 
In the poor old Earth, so long as she re- 
volves, all inequalities, irregularities dis- 
perse themselves; all irregularities are 
incessantly becoming regular. Hast thou 
looked on the Potter's wheel, — one of the 
venerablest objects; old as the Prophet 
Ezekiel and far older? Rude lumps of [60 
clay, how they spin themselves up, by 
mere quick whirling, into beautiful cir- 
cular dishes. And fancy the most assidu- 
ous Potter, but without his wheel; re- 
duced to make dishes, or rather amor- 
phous botches, by mere kneading and 
baking! Even such a Potter were Des- 
tiny, with a human soul that would rest 
and lie at ease, that would not work 
and spin! Of an idle unrevolving man [70 



the kindest Destiny, like the most assid- 
uous Potter without wheel, can bake and 
knead nothing other than a botch; let her 
spend on him what expensive coloring, 
what gilding and enamelling she will, he 
is but a botch. Not a dish; no, a bulg- 
ing, kneaded, crooked, shambling, squint- 
cornered, amorphous botch, — a mere en- 
amelled vessel of dishonor! Let the idle 
think of this. [go 

Blessed is he who has found his work; 
let him ask no other blessedness. He 
has a work, a life-purpose; he has found 
it, and will follow it! How, as a free- 
flowing channel, dug and torn by noble 
force through the sour mud-swamp of 
one's existence, like an ever-deepening 
river there, it runs and flows; — draining- 
off the sour festering water, gradually 
from the root of the remotest grass- [90 
blade; making, instead of pestilential 
swamp, a green fruitful meadow with its 
clear-flowing stream. How blessed for the 
meadow itself, let the stream and its value 
be great or small! Labor is Life; from the 
inmost heart of the Worker rises his god- 
given Force, the sacred celestial Life- 
essence breathed into him by Almighty 
God; from his inmost heart awakens him 
to all nobleness, — to all knowledge, [100 
"self-knowledge" and much else, so soon 
as Work fitly begins. Knowledge? The 
knowledge that v»^ill hold good in working, 
cleave thou to that; for Nature herself 
accredits that, says Yea to that. Properly 
thou hast no other knowledge but what 
thou hast got by working: the rest is yet 
all a hypothesis of knowledge; a thing to 
be argued of in schools, a thing floating in 
the clouds, in endless logic- vortices, [no 
till we try it and fix it. "Doubt, of what- 
ever kind, can be ended by Action alone." 

And again, hast thou valued Patience, 
Courage, Perseverance, Openness to light; 
readiness to own thyself mistaken, to 
do better next time? All these, all vir- 
tues, in wrestling with the dim brute 
Powers of Fact, in ordering of thy fel- 
lows in such wrestle, there and elsewhere 
not at aU, thou wilt continually learn. [120 
Set down a brave Sir Christopher in the 
middle of black ruined Stone-heaps, of 
foolish unarchitectural Bishops, red-tape 



650 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Officials; idle Nell-Gwyn Defenders of 
the Faith; and see whether he will ever 
raise a Paul's Cathedral out of all that, 
yea or no! Rough, rude, contradictory 
are all things and persons, from the mu- 
tinous masons and Irish hodmen, up to 
the idle Nell-Gwyn Defenders, to blus- [130 
tering red-tape Officials, foolish unarchitec- 
tural Bishops. All these things and per- 
sons are there not for Christopher's sake 
and his Cathedral's; they are there for 
their own sake mainly! Christopher will 
have to conquer and constrain all these, — 
if he be able. All these are against him. 
Equitable Nature herself, who carries her 
mathematics and architectonics not on 
the face of her, but deep in the hidden [140 
heart of her, — Nature herself is but par- 
tially for him; will be wholly against him, 
if he constrain her not! His very money, 
where is it to come from? The pious 
munificence of England lies far-scattered, 
distant, unable to speak, and say, "I am 
here"; — must be spoken to before it can 
speak. Pious munificence, and all help, 
is so silent, invisible like the gods; im- 
pediment, contradictions manifold, [150 
are so loud and near! O brave Sir Chris- 
topher, trust thou in those notwithstand- 
ing, and front all these; understand all 
these; by valiant patience, noble effort, 
insight, by man's strength, vanquish and 
compel all these, — and, on the whole, 
strike down victoriously the last topstone 
of that Paul's Edifice; thy monument for 
certain centuries, the stamp ''Great 
Man" impressed very legibly on [160 
Portland-stone there! — 

Yes, all manner of help, and pious re- 
sponse from Men or Nature, is always 
what we call silent; cannot speak or come 
to light, till it be seen, till it be spoken 
to. Every noble work is at first "im- 
possible." In very truth, for every noble 
work the possibilities will lie diffused 
through Immensity; inarticulate, undis- 
coverable except to faith. Like [170 
Gideon thou shaft spread out thy fleece 
at the door of thy tent; see whether under 
the wide arch of Heaven there be any 
bounteous moisture, or none. Thy heart 
and life-purpose shall be as a miraculous 
Gideon's fleece, spread out in silent appeal 
to Heaven: and from the kind Immensi- 



ties, what from the poor unkind Localities 
and town and country Parishes there 
never could, blessed dew-moisture to [180 
suffice thee shall have fallen! 

Work is of a religious nature: — work 
is of a brave nature; which it is the aim 
of all religion to be. All work of man 
is as the swimmer's : a waste ocean threat- 
ens to devour him; if he front it not 
bravely, it will keep its word. By inces- 
sant wise defiance of it, lusty rebuke and 
buffet of it, behold how it loyally sup- 
ports him, bears him as its conqueror [190 
along. "It is so," says Goethe, "with all 
things that man undertakes in this world." 

Brave Sea-captain, Norse Sea-king, — 
Columbus, my hero, royalest Sea-king of 
all! it is no friendly environment this of 
thine, in the waste deep waters; around 
thee mutinous discouraged souls, behind 
thee disgrace and ruin, before thee the 
unpenetrated veil of Night. Brother, 
these wild water-mountains, bound- [200 
ing from their deep bases (ten miles deep, 
I am told), are not entirely there on thy 
behalf! Meseems they have other work 
than floating thee forward: — and the 
huge Winds, that sweep from Ursa Major 
to the Tropics, and Equators, dancing 
their giant-waltz through the kingdoms 
of Chaos and Immensity, they care little 
about filKng rightly or filling wrongly the 
small shoulder-of-mutton sails in this [210 
cockle-skiff of thine ! Thou art not among 
articulate-speaking friends, my brother; 
thou art among immeasurable dumb 
monsters, tum.bUng, howling wide as the 
world here. Secret, far off, invisible to 
all hearts but thine, there lies a help in 
them: see how thou wilt get at that. 
Patiently thou wilt wait till the mad 
Southwester spend itself, saving thyself 
by dextrous science of defence, the [220 
while: valiantly, with swift decision, wilt 
thou strike in, when the favoring East, 
the Possible, springs up. Mutiny of men 
thou wilt sternly repress; weakness, de- 
spondency, thou wilt cheerily encourage: 
thou wilt swallow down complaint, un- 
reason, weariness, weakness of others and 
thyself; — how much wilt thou swallow 
down! There shall be a depth of Silence 
in thee, deeper than this Sea, which is [230 
but ten miles deep: a Silence unsoundable; 



CARLYLE 



651 



known to God only. Thou shalt be a 
Great Man. Yes, my World-Soldier, 
thou of the World Marine-service, — thou 
wilt have to be greater than this tumultu- 
ous unmeasured World here round thee 
is; thou, in thy strong soul, as with 
wrestler's arms, shalt embrace it, harness 
it down; and make it bear thee on, — to 
new Americas, or whither God wills! [240 

Chapter XII 
Reward 

"Religion," I said; for, properly speak- 
ing, all true Work is Religion: and what- 
soever Religion is not Work may go and 
dwell among the Brahmins, Antmomians, 
Spinning Dervishes, or where it will; 
with me it shall have no harbor. Ad- 
mirable was that of the old Monks, 
'' Labor are est Orare, Work is Worship." 

Older than all preached Gospels was 
this unpreached, inarticulate, but in- [10 
eradicable, forever-enduring Gospel : Work, 
and therein have wellbeing. Man, Son j 
of Earth and of Heaven, lies there not, 
in the innermost heart of thee, a Spirit 
of active Method, a Force for Work; — 
and burns like a painfully-smoldering fire, 
giving thee no rest till thou unfold it, till 
thou write it down in beneficent Facts 
around thee ! What is immethodic, waste, 
thou shalt make methodic, regulated, [20 
arable; obedient and productive to thee. 
Wheresoever thou findest Disorder, there 
is thy eternal enemy; attack him swiftly, 
subdue him; make Order of him, the 
subject not of Chaos, but of Intelligence, 
Divinity, and Thee! The thistle that 
grows in thy path, dig it out, that a 
blade of useful grass, a drop of nourishing 
milk, may grow there instead. The waste 
cotton-shrub, gather its waste white [30 
down, spin it, weave it; that, in place of 
idle litter, there may be folded webs, and 
the naked skin of man be covered. 

But above all, where thou findest Igno- 
rance, Stupidity, Brute-mindedness, — yes, 
there, with or without Church-tithes and 
Shovel-hat, with or without Talfourd- 
Mahon copyrights, or were it with mere 
dungeons and gibbets and crosses, attack 
it, I say; smite it wisely, unweariedly, [40 
and rest not while thou livest and it lives ; 



but smite, smite, in the name of God! 
The Highest God, as I understand it, 
does audibly so command thee; still au- 
dibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, 
even He, with his unspoken voice, aw- 
fuler than any Sinai thunders or syllabled 
speech of Whirlwinds; for the Silence 
of deep Eternities, of Worlds from be- 
yond the morning-stars, does it not [50 
speak to thee? The unborn Ages; the 
old Graves, with their long-moldering 
dust, the very tears that wetted it now 
all dry, — do not these speak to thee, what 
ear hath not heard? The deep Death- 
kingdoms, the Stars in their never-resting 
courses, all Space and aU Time, proclaim 
it to thee in continual silent admonition. 
Thou too, if ever man should, shalt work 
while it is called To-day. For the [60 
Night Cometh, wherein no man can work. 
All true Work is sacred; in all true 
Work, were it but true hand-labor, there 
is something of divineness. Labor, wide 
as the Earth, has its summit in Heaven. 
Sweat of the brow; and up from that to 
sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart; 
which includes all Kepler calculations, 
Newton meditations, all Sciences, all 
spoken Epics, all acted Heroisms, [70 
Martyrdoms, — up to that "Agony of 
bloody sweat," which all men have called 
divine! brother, if this is not "wor- 
ship," then I say, the more pity for 
worship; for this is the noblest thing yet 
discovered under God's sky. Who art 
thou that complainest of thy life -of toil? 
Complain not. Look up, my wearied 
brother; see thy fellow Workmen there, 
in God's Eternity; surviving there, [80 
they alone surviving: sacred Band of the 
Immortals, celestial Bodyguard of the 
Empire of Mankind. Even in the weak 
Human Memory they survive so long, 
as saints, as heroes, as gods; they alone 
surviving; peopling, they alone, the un- 
measured solitudes of Time! To thee 
Heaven, though severe, is not unkind; 
Heaven is kind, — as a noble Mother; as 
that Spartan Mother, saying while [90 
she gave her son his shield, "With it, my 
son, or upon it!" Thou too shalt return 
home in honor; to thy far-distant Home, 
in honor; doubt it not, — if in the battle 
thou keep thy shield! Thou, in the 



652 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Eternities and deepest Death-kingdoms, 
art not an alien; thou everywhere art a 
denizen! Complain not; the very Spar- 
tans did not complain. 

And who art thou that braggest of [loo 
thy life of Idleness; complacently showest 
thy bright gilt equipages ; sumptuous cush- 
ions; appliances for folding of the hands 
to mere sleep? Looking up, looking 
down, around, behind or before, discernest 
thou, if it be not in Mayfair alone, any 
idle hero, saint, god, or even devil? Not 
a vestige of one. In the Heavens, in the 
Earth, in the Waters under the Earth, is 
none like unto thee. Thou art an [no 
original figure in this Creation; a denizen 
in Mayfair alone, in this extraordinary 
Century or Half-Centur>' alone! One 
monster there is in the world: the idle 
man. What is his "Religion"? That 
Nature is a Phantasm, where cunning 
beggary or thievery may sometimes find 
good victual. That God is a lie; and 
that Man and his Life are a lie. — :Alas, 
alas, who of us is there that can say, I [120 
have worked? The faithfulest of us are 
unprofitable servants; the faithfulest of 
us know that best. The faithfulest of us 
may say, with sad and true old Samuel, 
"Much of my life has been trifled away!" 
But he that has, and except "on public 
occasions" professes to have, no function 
but that of going idle in a graceful or 
graceless manner; and of begetting sons 
to go idle; and to address Chief Spin- [130 
ners and Diggers, who at least are spin- 
ning and digging, "Ye scandalous persons 
who produce too much" — My Corn-Law 
friends, on what imaginary still richer 
Eldorados, and true iron-spikes with law 
of gravitation, are ye rushing! 

As to the Wages of Work there might 
innumerable things be said; there will 
and must yet innumerable things be said 
and spoken, in St. Stephen's and out [140 
of St. Stephen's; and gradually not a few 
things be ascertained and written, on 
Law-parchment, concerning this very 
matter: — "Fair day's- wages for a fair 
day's- work" is the most unrefusable de- 
mand! Money- wages "to the extent of 
keeping your worker alive that he may 
work more:" these, unless you mean to 
dismiss him straightway out of this world, 



are indispensable alike to the noblest [150 
Worker and to the least noble! 

One thing only I will say here, in 
special reference to the former class, the 
noble and noblest; but throwing light on 
all the other classes and their arrangements 
of this difficult matter: The "wages" of 
every noble Work do yet lie in Heaven 
or else Nowhere. Not in Bank-of- Eng- 
land bills, in Owen's Labor-bank, or 
any the most improved establishment [160 
of banking and money-changing, needest 
thou, heroic soul, present thy account 
of earnings. Human banks and labor- 
banks know thee not; or know thee after 
generations and centuries have passed 
away, and thou art clean gone from 
"rewarding," — all manner of bank-drafts, 
shop-tills, and Downing-street Exchequers 
lying wevy invisible, so far from thee! 
Nay, at bottom, dost thou need any [17c 
reward? Was it thy aim and life-pur- 
pose to be filled with good things for thy 
heroism; to have a life of pomp and ease, 
and be what men call "happy," in this 
world, or in any other world? I answer 
for thee deliberately, No. The whole 
spiritual secret of the new epoch lies in 
this, that thou canst answer for thyself, 
with thy whole clearness of head and 
heart, deliberately. No! [180 

My brother, the brave man has to give 
his Life away. Give it, I advise thee; 
— thou dost not expect to sell thy Life 
in an adequate manner? What price, for 
example, would content thee? The just 
price of thy Life to thee, — why, God's 
entire Creation to thyself, the whole Uni- 
verse of Space, the whole Eternity of 
Time, and what they hold: that is the 
price which would content thee; that, [190 
and if thou wilt be candid, nothing short 
of that! It is thy all; and for it thou 
wouldst have all. Thou art an unreason- 
able mortal; — or rather thou art a poor 
infinite mortal, who, in thy narrow clay- 
prison here, seemest so unreasonable ! Thou 
wilt never sell thy Life, or any part of 
thy Life, in a satisfactory manner. Give 
it, like a royal heart; let the price be 
Nothing: thou hast then, in a certain [200 
sense, got All for it! The heroic man, — 
and is not every man, God be thanked, 
a potential hero? — has to do so, in all 



CARLYLE 



653 



times and circumstances. In the most 
heroic age, as in the most unheroic, he 
will have to say, as Burns said proudly 
and humbly of his little Scottish Songs, 
little dewdrops of Celestial Melody in an 
age when so much was unmelodious: 
"By Heaven, they shall either be in- [210 
valuable or of no value; I do not need 
your guineas for them." It is an element 
which should, and must, enter deeply into 
all settlements of wages here below. 
They never will be "satisfactory" other- 
wise; they cannot, O Mammon Gospel, 
they never can! Money for my little 
piece of work "to the extent that will al- 
low me to keep working;" yes, this, — 
unless you mean that I shall go my [220 
ways before the work is all taken out of 
me: but as to "wages" — ! 

On the whole, we do entirely agree 
with those old Monks, Laborare est 
Orare. In a thousand senses, from one 
end of it to the other, true Work is 
Worship. He that works, whatsoever 
be his work, he bodies forth the form 
of Things Unseen; a small Poet every 
Worker is. The idea, were it but of his [230 
poor Delf Platter, how much more of his 
Epic Poem, is as yet "seen," half-seen, 
only by himself; to all others it is a thing 
unseen, impossible; to Nature herself it 
is a thing unseen, a thing which never 
hitherto was; — very "impossible," for 
it is as yet a No-thing! The Unseen 
Powers had need to watch over such a 
man; he works in and for the Unseen. 
Alas, if he look to the Seen Powers [240 
only, he may as well quit the business; 
his No-thing will never rightly issue as a 
Thing, but as a Deceptivity, a Sham-thing, 
— which it had better not do! 

Thy No-thing of an Intended Poem, O 
Poet who hast looked merely to reviewers, 
copyrights, booksellers, popularities, be- 
hold it has not yet become a Thing; for 
the truth is not in it! Though printed, 
hotpressed, reviewed, celebrated, sold [250 
to the twentieth edition: what is all that? 
The Thing, in philosophical uncommer- 
cial language, is still a No-thing, mostly 
semblance and deception of the sight; — 
benign Obli\'ion incessantly gnawing at it, 
impatient till Chaos, to which it belongs, 
do reabsorb it! — 



He who takes not counsel of the Un- 
seen and Silent, from him will never come 
real visibility and speech. Thou [260 
must descend to the Mothers, to the Manes, 
and Hercules-like long suffer and labor 
there, wouldst thou emerge with victory 
into the sunlight. As in battle and the 
shock of war, — for is not this a battle? — 
thou too shalt fear no pain or death, shalt 
love no ease or life; the voice of festive 
Lubberlands, the noise of greedy Acheron, 
shall alike lie silent under thy victorious 
feet. Thy work, like Dante's, shall [270 
"make thee lean for many years." The 
world and its wages, its criticisms, coun- 
sels, helps, impediments, shall be as a 
waste ocean-flood; the chaos through 
which thou art to swim and sail. Not 
the waste waves and their weedy gulf- 
streams, shalt thou take for guidance: 
thy star alone, — "Se tu segui tua stellal" 
Thy star alone, now clear-beaming over 
Chaos, nay now by fits gone out, dis- [280 
I astrously eclipsed: this only shalt thou 
! strive to follow. O, it is a business, as 
j I fancy, that of weltering your way 
through Chaos and the murk of Hell, 
Green-eyed dragons watching you, three- 
headed Cerberuses, — not without sym- 
pathy of their sort! "Eccovi V uom cK 
e stato air Inferno.'^ For in fine, as Poet 
Dryden says, you do walk hand in hand 
with sheer Madness, all the way, — [290 
who is by no means pleasant company! 
You look fixedly into Madness, and her un- 
discovered, boundless, bottomless Night- 
empire; that you may extort new Wisdom 
out of it, as an Eurydice from Tartarus. 
The higher the Wisdom, the closer was 
its neighborhood and kindred with mere 
Insanity; literally so; — and thou wilt, with 
a speechless feeling, obsen.'e how highest 
Wisdom, struggUng up into this world, [300 
has oftentimes carried such tinctures and 
adhesions of Insanity still cleaving to it 
hither! 

All Works, each in their degree, are 
a making of Madness sane; — truly enough 
a religious operation; which cannot be 
carried on without religion. You have 
not work otherwise; you have eye-service, 
greedy grasping of wages, swift and ever 
swifter manufacture of semblances [310 
to get hold of wages. Instead of better 



654 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



felt-hats to cover your head, you have 
bigger lath-and-plaster hats set traveling 
the streets on wheels. Instead of heav- 
enly and earthly Guidance for the souls 
of men, you have "Black or White Sur- 
plice" Controversies, stuffed hair-and- 
leather Popes; — terrestrial Law-wards, 
Lords and Law-bringers, "organizing 
Labor" in these years, by passing [320 
Corn-Laws. With all which, alas, this 
distracted Earth is now full, nigh to 
bursting. Semblances most smooth to 
the touch and eye; most accursed, never- 
theless, to body and soul. Semblances, 
be they of Sham-woven Cloth or of 
Dilettante Legislation, which are not real 
wool or substance, but Devil's-dust, ac- 
cursed of God and man! No man has 
worked, or can work, except reli- [330 
giously; not even the poor day-laborer, 
the weaver of your coat, the sewer of your 
shoes. All men, if they work not as in a 
Great Taskmaster's eye, will work wrong, 
work unhappily for themselves and you. 

Industrial work, still under bondage to 
Mammon, the rational soul of it not yet 
awakened, is a tragic spectacle. Men in 
the rapidest motion and self-motion; rest- 
less, with convulsive energy, as if [340 
driven by Galvanism, as if possessed by a 
Devil; tearing asunder mountains, — to 
no purpose, for Mammonism is always 
Midas-eared! This is sad, on the face 
of it. Yet courage: the beneficent Des- 
tinies, kind in their sternness, are appris- 
ing us that this cannot continue. Labor 
is not a devil, even while encased in 
Mammonism ; Labor is ever an imprisoned 
god, writhing unconsciously or con- [350 
sciously to escape out of Mammonism! 
Plugson of Undershot, like Taillefer of 
Normandy, wants victory; how much 
happier will even Plugson be to have a 
Chivalrous victory than a Choctaw one! 
The unredeemed ugliness is that of a 
slothful People. Show me a People 
energetically busy; heaving, struggling, 
all shoulders at the wheel; their heart 
pulsing, every muscle swelling, with [360 
man's energy and will; — I show you a 
People of whom great good is already 
predicable; to whom all manner of good 
is yet certain, if their energy endure. 
By very working, they will learn; they 



have, Antaeus-like, their foot on Mother 
Fact: how can they but learn? 

The vulgarest Plugson of a Master- 
Worker, who can command Workers, 
and get work out of them, is already [370 
a considerable man. Blessed and thrice- 
blessed symptoms I discern of Master- 
Workers who are not vulgar men; who 
are Nobles, and begin to feel that they 
must act as such: all speed to these, they 
are England's hope at present! But in 
this Plugson himself, conscious of almost 
no nobleness whatever, how much is 
there! Not without man's faculty, in- 
sight, courage, hard energy, is this [380 
rugged figure. His words none of the 
wisest; but his actings cannot be alto- 
gether foolish. Think, how were it, 
stoodst thou suddenly in his shoes! He 
has to command a thousand men. And 
not imaginary commanding; no, it is real, 
incessantly practical. The evil passions 
of so many men (with the Devil in them, 
as in all of us) he has to vanquish; by 
manifold force of speech and of silence, [390 
to repress or evade. What a force of 
silence, to say nothing of the others, is 
in Plugson ! For these his thousand men 
he has to provide raw-material, machin- 
ery, arrangement, houseroom; and ever 
at the week's end, wages by due sale. 
No Civil-List, or Goulburn-Baring Budg- 
et has he to fall back upon, for paying 
of his regiment ; he has to pick his supplies 
from the confused face of the whole [400 
Earth and Contemporaneous History, by 
his dexterity alone. There will be dry 
eyes if he fail to do it! — He exclaims, 
at present, "black in the face," near 
strangled with Dilettante Legislation: 
"Let me have elbow-room, throat-room, 
and I will not fail! No, I will spin yet, 
and conquer like a giant: what 'sinews 
of war' lie in me, untold resources to- 
wards the Conquest of this Planet, if, [410 
instead of hanging me, you husband them, 
and help me!" — My indomitable friend, 
it is true; and thou shalt and must be 
helped. 

This is not a man I would kill and 
strangle by Corn-Laws, even if I could! 
No, I would fling my Corn-Laws and 
shot-belts to the Devil; and try to help 
this man. I would teach him, by noble 



CARLYLE 



655 



precept and law-precept, by noble [420 
example most of all, that Mammonism 
was not the essence of his or of my station 
in God's Universe; but the adscititious 
excrescence of it; the gross, terrene, 
godless embodiment of it; which would 
have to become, more or less, a godlike 
one. By noble real legislation, by true, 
woWe'5-work, by unwearied, valiant, and 
were it wageless effort, in my Parliament 
and in my Parish, I would aid, con- [430 
strain, encourage him to effect more or less 
this blessed change. I should know that it 
would have to be effected; that unless it 
were in some measure effected, he and 
I and all of us, I first and soonest of all, 
were doomed to perdition! — Effected it 
will be; unless it were a Demon that 
made this Universe; which I, for my own 
part, do at no moment, under no form, in 
the least believe. [440 

May it please your Serene Highnesses, 
your Majesties, Lordships and Law- 
wardships, the proper Epic of this world 
is not now "Arms and the Man", how 
much less, "Shirt-frills and the Man": 
no, it is now "Tools and the Man": that, 
henceforth to all time, is now our Epic; 
— and you, first of all others, I think, 
were wise to take note of that! 



From CROMWELL'S LETTERS 
AND SPEECHES 

The Battle of Dunbar 

"The Lord General about four o'clock," 
say the old Pamphlets, "went into the 
Town to take some refreshment," a hasty 
late dinner, or early supper, whichever 
we may call it; "and very soon returned 
back," — having written Sir Arthur's Let- 
ter, I think, in the interim. Coursing 
about the field, with enough of things to 
order; walking at last with Lambert in 
the Park or Garden of Brocksmouth [10 
House, he discerns that Lesley is astir 
on the Hillside; altering his position some- 
what. That Lesley, in fact, is coming 
wholly down to the basis of the Hill, where 
his horse had been since sunrise: coming 
wholly down to the edge of the Brook and 
glen, among the sloping harvest-fields 
there; and also is bringing up his left 



wing of horse, most part of it, towards 
his right; edging himself, "shogging," [20 
as Oliver calls it, his whole line more and 
more to the right! His meaning is, to 
get hold of Brocksmouth House and the 
pass of the Brook there; after which it 
will be free to him to attack us when he 
will! — Lesley, in fact, considers, or at least 
the Committee of Estates and Kirk con- 
sider, that Oliver is lost; that, on the 
whole, he must not be left to retreat, but 
must be attacked and annihilated [30 
here. A vague story, due to Bishop 
Burnet, the watery source of many such, 
still circulates about the world. That it 
was the Kirk Committee who forced 
Lesley down against his will; that Oliver, 
at sight of it, exclaimed, "The Lord hath 
delivered," etc.; which nobody is in the 
least bound to believe. It appears, from 
other quarters, that Lesley was advised 
or sanctioned in this attempt by the [40 
Committee of Estates and Kirk, but also 
that he was by no means hard to advise; 
that, in fact, lying on the top of Doon 
Hill, shelterless in such weather, was 
no operation to spin out beyond neces- 
sity; — and that if anybody pressed too 
much upon him with advice to come down 
and fight, it was likeliest to be RoyaUst 
Civil Dignitaries, who had plagued him 
with their cavilings at his cunctations, [50 
at his "secret fellow-feeling for the Sec- 
tarians and Regicides" ever since this 
war began. The poor Scotch Clergy 
have enough of their own to answer for 
in this business; let every back bear the 
burden that belongs to it. In a word, 
Lesley descends, has been descending all 
day, and "shogs" himself to the right, — 
urged, I believe, by manifold counsel, 
and by the nature of the case; and, [60 
what is equally important for us, Oliver 
sees him, and sees through him, in this 
movement of his. 

At the sight of this movement, OUver 
suggests to Lambert standing by him, 
Does it not give us an advantage, if we, 
instead of him, like to begin the attack? 
Here is the Enemy's right wing coming 
out to the open space, free to be attacked 
on any side; and the main-battle, [70 
hampered in narrow sloping ground be- 
tween Doon Hill and the Brook, has no 



6c;6 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



room to maneuver or assist: beat this 
right wing where it now stands; take it 
in flank and front with an overpowering 
force, — it is driven upon its own main- 
battle, the whole Army is beaten? Lam- 
bert eagerly assents, "had meant to say 
the same thing." Monk, who comes up 
at this moment, likewise assents; as [80 
the other ofhcers do, when the case in 
set before them. It is the plan resolved 
upon for battle. The attack shall begin 
tomorrow before dawn. 

And so the soldiers stand to their 
arms, or lie within instant reach of their 
arms, all night; being upon an engage- 
ment very difficult indeed. The night 
is wild and wet; — 2d of September means 
12th by our calendar: the Harvest [90 
Moon wades deep among clouds of sleet 
and hail. Whoever has a heart for 
prayer, let him pray now, for the wrestle 
of death is at hand. Pray, — and withal 
keep his powder dry! And be ready 
for extremities, and quit himself Hke a 
man! — Thus they pass the night; mak- 
ing that Dunbar Peninsula and Brock 
Rivulet long memorable to me. We Eng- 
lish have some tents; the Scots have [100 
none. The hoarse sea moans bodeful, 
swinging low and heavy against these 
whinstone bays; the sea and the tempests 
are abroad, all else asleep but we, — and 
there is One that rides on the wings of the 
wind. 

Towards three in the morning the 
Scotch foot, by order of a Major-General 
say some, extinguish their matches, all 
but two in a company; cower under [no 
the corn-shocks, seeking some imperfect 
shelter and sleep. Be wakeful, ye Eng- 
lish; watch, and pray, and keep your 
powder dry. About four o'clock comes 
order to my pudding-headed Yorkshire 
friend, that his regiment must mount 
and march straightway; his and various 
other regiments march, pouring swiftly 
to the left to Brocksmouth House, to 
the Pass over the Brock. With over- [120 
powering force let us storm the Scots 
right wing there; beat that, and all is 
beaten. Major Hodgson riding along, 
heard, he says, "a Cornet praying in the 
night;" a company of poor men, I think, 
making worship there, under the void 



Heaven, before battle joined: Major 
Hodgson, giving his charge to a brother 
Ofificer, turned aside to listen for a min- 
ute, and worship and pray along [130 
with them; haply his last prayer on this 
Earth, as it might prove to be. But no: 
this Cornet prayed with such effusion as 
was wonderful; and imparted strength to 
my Yorkshire friend, who strengthened 
his men by telling them of it. And the 
Heavens, in their mercy, I think, have 
opened us a way of deliverance! — The 
Moon gleams out, hard and blue, riding 
among hail-clouds; and over St. Abb's [140 
Head a streak of dawn is rising. 

And now is the hour when the attack 
should be, and no Lambert is yet here, 
he is ordering the line far to the right yet; 
and Oliver occasionally, in Hodgson's 
hearing, is impatient for him. The Scots 
too, on this wing, are awake; thinking 
to surprise us; there is their trumpet 
sounding, we heard it once; and Lam- 
bert, w^ho was to lead the attack, is [150 
not here. The Lord General is im- 
patient; — behold Lambert at last! The 
trumpets peal, shattering with fierce 
clangor Night's silence; the cannons 
awaken along all the Line: "The Lord 
of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts!" On, my 
brave ones, on! — 

The dispute "on this right wing was 
hot and stiff, for three quarters of an 
hour." Plenty of fire, from field- [160 
pieces, snap-hances, matchlocks, enter- 
tains the Scotch main-battle across the 
Brock; — poor stiffened men, roused from 
the corn-shocks with their matches all 
out! But here on the right, their horse, 
"with lancers in the front rank," charge 
desperately; drive us back across the 
hollow of the Rivulet ;— back a little; 
but the Lord gives us courage, and we 
storm home again, horse and foot, [170 
upon them, with a shock like tornado 
tempests; break them, beat them, drive 
them all adrift. "Some fled towards 
Copperspath, but most across their own 
foot." Their own poor foot, whose 
matches were hardly well alight yet! 
Poor men, it was a terrible awakening for 
them: field-pieces and charge of foot 
across the Brocksburn; and now here is 
their own horse in mad panic tramp- [180 



RUSKIN 



657 



ling them to death. Above three thousand 
killed upon the place: "I never saw such 
a charge of foot and horse," says one; 
nor did I. Oliver was still near to York- 
shire Hodgson where the shock succeeded ; 
Hodgson heard him say, "They run, I 
profess they run!" And over St. Abb's 
Head and the German Ocean, just then, 
bursts the first gleam of the level Sun 
upon us, "and I heard Nol say, in [190 
the words of the Psalmist, 'Let God 
arise, let His enemies be scattered,'" — 
or in Rous's meter — 

"Let God arise, and scattered 
Let all his enemies be; 
And let all those that do him hate 
Before his presence flee!" 

Even so. The Scotch Army is shivered 
to utter ruin; rushes in tumultuous wreck, 
hither, thither; to Belhaven, or, in [200 
their distraction, even to Dimbar; the 
chase goes as far as Haddington; led by 
Hacker. "The Lord general made a 
halt," says Hodgson, "and sang the 
Hundred-and-seventeenth Psalm," till our 
horse could gather for the chase. Hundred- 
and-seventeenth Psalm, at the foot of Doon 
Hill; there we uplift it, to the tune of 
Bangor, or some still higher score, and 
roll it strong and great against the [210 
sky: — 

"Oh give ye praise unto the Lord, 

All nati-ons that be; 
Likewise ye people all, accord 
His name to magnify! 

For great to-us-ward ever are 

His loving-kindnesses; 
His truth endures for evermore: 

The Lord oh do ye bless! " 

And now, to the chase again. [220 



JOHN RUSKIN (1819-1900) 
From MODERN PAINTERS 

SU^TRISE AND SUNSET IN THE AlPS 

Stand upon the peak of some isolated 
mountain at daybreak, when the night 
mists first rise from off the plains, and 
watch their white and lake-like fields, as 
they float in level bays and ^^dnding gulfs 



about the islanded summits of the Icwer 
hills, untouched yet by more than dawn, 
colder and more quiet than a windless 
sea under the moon of midnight; watch 
when the first sunbeam is sent upon [10 
the silver channels, how the foam of their 
undulating surface parts and passes away, 
and down under their depths the glittering 
city and green pasture lie like Atlantis, 
between the white paths of winding rivers; 
the flakes of light falling every moment 
faster and broader among the starry spires, 
as the wreathed surges break and vanish 
above them, and the confused crests and 
ridges of the dark hills shorten their [20 
gray shadows upon the plain. . . . Wait 
a little longer, and you shall see those 
scattered mists rallying in the ravines, 
and floating up towards you, along the 
winding valleys, till they crouch in quiet 
masses, iridescent with the morning light, 
upon the broad breasts of the higher 
hills, whose leagues of massy undulation 
will melt back and back into that robe 
of material light, until they fade away, [30 
lost in its lustre, to appear again above, 
in the serene heaven, hke a wild, bright, 
impossible dream, foundationless and in- 
accessible, their very bases vanishing in 
the unsubstantial and mocking blue of 
the deep lake below. . . . Wait yet a 
little longer, and you shall see those 
mists gather themselves into white tow- 
ers, and stand like fortresses along the 
promontories, massy and motionless, [40 
only piled with every instant higher and 
higher into the sky, and casting longer 
shadows athwart the rocks; and out of 
the pale blue of the horizon you will see 
forming and advancing a troop of nar- 
row, dark, pointed vapors, which will 
cover the sky, inch by inch, with their 
gray network, and take the light off the 
landscape with an eclipse which will stop 
the singing of the birds and the mo- [50 
tion of the leaves, together; and then 
you will see horizontal bars of black 
shadow forming under them, and lurid 
wreaths create themselves, you know not 
how, along the shoulders of the hills; you 
never see them form, but when you look 
back to a place which was clear an in- 
stant ago, there is a cloud on it, hanging 
by the precipices, as a hawk pauses over 



658 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



his prey. . . . And then you will [60 
hear the sudden rush of the awakened 
wind, and you will see those watch-towers 
of vapor swept away from their founda- 
tions, and waving curtains of opaque rain 
let down to the valleys, swinging from 
the burdened clouds in black bending 
fringes, or pacing in pale columns along 
the lake level, grazing its surface into 
foam as they go. And then, as the sun 
sinks, you shall see the storm drift for [70 
an instant from off the hills, leaving their 
broad sides smoking, and loaded yet 
with snow-white, torn, steam-like rags of 
capricious vapor, now gone, now gathered 
again; while the sm.ouldering sun, seeming 
not far away, but burning like a red- 
hot ball beside you, and as if you could 
reach it, plunges through the rushing 
wind and roUing cloud with headlong 
fall, as if it meant to rise no more, [80 
dyeing all the air about it with blood. . . . 
And then you shall hear the fainting 
tempest die in the hollow of the night, 
and you shall see a green halo kindling 
on the summit of the eastern hills, brighter 
— brighter yet, till the large white circle 
of the slow moon is Hfted up among the 
barred clouds, step by step, line by line; 
star after star she quenches with her 
kindling light, setting in their stead [90 
an army of pale, impenetrable, fleecy 
wreaths in the heaven, to give light upon 
the earth, which move together, hand in 
hand, company by company, troop by 
troop, so measured in their unity of mo- 
tion, that the whole heaven seems to 
roll with them, and the earth to reel 
under them. . . . And then wait yet 
for one hour, until the east again becomes 
purple, and the heaving mountains, [100 
rolling against it in darkness, like waves 
of a wild sea, are drowned one by one 
in the glory of its burning; watch the 
white glaciers blaze in their winding paths 
about the mountains, like mighty serpents 
with scales of fire: watch the columnar 
peaks of solitary snow, kindling down- 
wards, chasm by chasm, each in itself a 
new morning; their long avalanches cast 
down in keen streams brighter than [no 
the lightning, sending each his tribute of 
driven snow, like altar-smoke, up to the 
heaven; the rose-light of their silent 



domes flushing that heaven about them 
and above them, piercing with purer light 
through its purple lines of lifted cloud, 
casting a new glory on every wreath as 
it passes by, until the whole heaven, 
one scarlet canopy, is interwoven with a 
roof of waving flame, and tossing, [120 
vault beyond vault, as with the drifted 
wings of many companies of angels: and 
then, when you can look no more for 
gladness, and when you are bowed down 
with fear and love of the Maker and Doer 
of this, tell me who has best delivered 
this His message unto men! 

THE TWO BOYHOODS 

Born half-way between the mountains 
and the sea — that young George of Castel- 
franco — of the Brave Castle: — Stout 
George they called him, George of Georges, 
so goodly a boy he was — Giorgione. 

Have you ever thought what a world 
his eyes opened on — fair, searching eyes 
of youth? What a world of mighty life, 
from those mountain roots to the shore; 
— of loveliest life, when he went down, [10 
yet so young, to the marble city — and 
became himself as a fiery heart to it? 

A city of marble, did I say? nay, rather 
a golden city, paved with emerald. For 
truly, every pinnacle and turret glanced 
or glowed, overlaid with gold, or bossed 
with jasper. Beneath, the unsullied sea 
drew in deep breathing, to and fro, its 
eddies of green wave. Deep-hearted, 
majestic, terrible as the sea, — the [20 
men of Venice moved in sway of power 
and war; pure as her pillars of alabaster, 
stood her mothers and maidens; from foot 
to brow, all noble, walked her knights; 
the low bronzed gleaming of sea-rusted 
armor shot angrily under their blood-red 
mantle-folds. Fearless, faithful, patient, 
impenetrable, implacable, — every word 
a fate — sat her senate. In hope and 
honor, lulled by flowing of wave [30 
around their isles of sacred sand, each 
with his name written and the cross 
graved at his side, lay her dead. A won- 
derful piece of world. Rather, itself a 
world. It lay along the face of the waters, 
no larger, as its captains saw it from their 
masts at evening, than a bar of sunset 



RUSKIN 



659 



that could not pass away; but for its 
power, it must have seemed to them as 
if they were saiUng in the expanse of [40 
heaven, and this a great planet, whose 
orient edge widened through ether. A 
world from which all ignoble care and 
petty thoughts were banished, with all 
the common and poor elements of life. 
No foulness, nor tumult, in those tremu- 
lous streets, that filled, or fell, beneath 
the moon; but rippled music of majestic 
change, or thrilling silence. No weak 
walls could rise above them; no low- [50 
roofed cottage, nor straw-built shed. 
Only the strength as of rock, and the 
finished setting of stones most precious. 
And around them, far as the eye could 
reach, still the soft moving of stainless 
waters, proudly pure; as not the flower, 
so neither the thorn nor the thistle, could 
grow in the glancing fields. Ethereal 
strength of Alps, dreamlike, vanishing in 
high procession beyond the Torcellan [60 
shore; blue islands of Paduan hills, poised 
in the golden west. Above, free winds 
and fiery clouds ranging at their will; — 
brightness out of the north, and balm 
from the south, and the stars of the 
evening and morning clear in the limitless 
light of arched heaven and circling sea. 

Such was Giorgione's school — such Ti- 
tian's home. 

Near the south-west corner of Co- [70 
vent Garden, a square brick pit or well 
is formed by a close-set block of houses, 
to the back windows of which it admits a 
few rays of light. Access to the bottom 
of it is obtained out of Maiden Lane, 
through a low archway and an iron gate; 
and if you stand long enough under the 
archway to accustom your eyes to the 
darkness you may see on the left hand a 
narrow door, which formerly gave [80 
quiet access to a respectable barber's 
shop, of which the front window, looking 
into Maiden Lane, is still extant, filled, 
in this year (i860), with a row of laottles, 
connected, in some defunct manner, with 
a brewer's business. A more fashionable 
neighborhood, it is said, eighty years 
ago than now — never certainly a cheerful 
one — wherein a boy being born on St. 
George's day, 1775, began soon after [90 
to take interest in the world of Covent 



Garden, and put to service such spec- 
tacles of life as it afforded. 

No knights to be seen there, nor, I 
imagine, many beautiful ladies; their 
costume at least disadvantageous, de- 
pending much on incumbency of hat and 
feather, and short waists; the majesty of 
men founded similarly on shoebuckles 
and wigs; — impressive enough when [100 
Reynolds will do his best for it; but not 
suggestive of much ideal delight to a boy. 

"Bello ovile dov' io dormii agnello"; 
of things beautiful, besides men and 
women, dusty sunbeams up or down the 
street on summer mornings; deep fur- 
rowed cabbage-leaves at the greengrocer's; 
magnificence of oranges in wheelbarrows 
round the corner; and Thames' shore 
within three minutes' race. [no 

None of these things very glorious; 
the best, however, that England, it seems, 
was then able to provide for a boy of 
gift: who, such as they are, loves them — 
never, indeed, forgets them. The short 
waists modify to the last his visions of 
Greek ideal. His foregrounds had always 
a succulent cluster or two of greengrocery 
at the corners. Enchanted oranges gleam 
in Covent Gardens of the Hesperides; [120 
and great ships go to pieces in order to 
scatter chests of them on the waves. 
That mist of early sunbeams in the Lon- 
don dawn crosses, many and many a 
time, the clearness of Italian air; and by 
Thames' shore, with its stranded barges 
and glidings of red sail, dearer to us than 
Lucerne lake or Venetian lagoon, — by 
Thames' shore we will die. 

With such circumstance round [130 
him in youth, let us note what necessary 
effects followed upon the boy. I assume 
him to have had Giorgione's sensibility 
(and more than Giorgione's, if that be 
possible) to color and form. I tell you 
farther, and this fact you may receive 
trustfully, that his sensibility to human 
affection and distress was no less keen 
than even his sense for natural beauty — 
heart-sight deep as eyesight. [140 

Consequently, he attaches himself with 
the faithfullest child-love to everything 
that bears an image of the place he was 
born in. No matter how ugly it is, — has 
it anything about it hke Maiden Lane, 



66o 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



or like Thames' shore? If so, it shall be 
painted for their sake. Hence, to the 
very close of life, Turner could endure 
ugliness which no one else, of the same 
sensibility, would have borne with [150 
for an instant. Dead brick walls, blank 
square windows, old clothes, market- 
womanly types of humanity — anything 
fishy and muddy, like Billingsgate or 
Hungerford Market, had great attrac- 
tion for him; black barges, patched sails, 
and every possible condition of fog. 

You will find these tolerations and 
affections guiding or sustaining him to 
the last hour of his life; the notablest [160 
of all such endurances being that of dirt. 
No Venetian ever draws anything foul; 
but Turner devoted picture after picture 
to the illustration of effects of dinginess, 
smoke, soot, dust, and dusty texture; 
old sides of boats, weedy roadside vegeta- 
tion, dunghills, straw-yards, and all the 
soilings and stains of every common labor. 

And more than this, he not only could 
endure, but enjoyed and looked for [170 
litter, like Covent Garden wreck after 
the market. His pictures are often full of 
it, from side to side; their foregrounds 
differ from all others in the natural way 
that things have of lying about in them. 
Even his richest vegetation, in ideal 
work, is confused; and he delights in 
shingle, debris, and heaps of fallen stones. 
The last words he ever spoke to me about 
a picture were in gentle exultation [180 
about his St. Gothard: "that litter of 
stones which I endeavored to represent." 

The second great result of this Covenf 
Garden training was understanding of 
and regard for the poor, whom the Vene- 
tians, we saw, despised; whom, contrarily, 
Turner loved, and more than loved — un- 
derstood. He got no romantic sight of 
them, but an infallible one, as he prowled 
about the end of his lane, watching [190 
night effects in the wintry streets; nor 
sight of the poor alone, but of the poor 
in direct relations with the rich. He 
knew, in good and evil, what both classes 
thought of, and how they dwelt with, 
each other. 

Reynolds and Gainsborough, bred in 
country villages, learned there the country 
boy's reverential theory of "the squire," 



and kept it. They painted the squire [200 
and the squire's lady as centres of the 
movements of the universe, to the end 
of their lives. But Turner perceived the 
younger squire in other aspects about his 
lane, occurring prominently in its night 
scenery, as a dark figure, or one of two, 
against the moonlight. He saw also the 
working of city commerce, from endless 
warehouse, towering over Thames, to the 
back shop in the lane, with its stale [210 
herrings — highly interesting these last; 
one of his father's best friends, whom he 
often afterwards visited affectionately at 
Bristol, being a fishmonger and glue- 
boiler; which gives us a friendly turn of 
mind towards herring-fishing, whaling, 
Calais poissardes, and many other of 
our choicest subjects in after life; all this 
being connected with that mysterious 
forest below London Bridge on one [220 
side; — and, on the other, with these 
masses of human power and national 
wealth which weigh upon us, at Covent 
Garden here, with strange compression, 
and crush us into narrow Hand Court. 

"That mysterious forest below London 
Bridge" — better for the boy than wood of 
pine, or grove of myrtle. How he must 
have tormented the watermen, beseeching 
them to let him crouch anywhere in [230 
the bows, quiet as a log, so only that he 
might get floated down there among the 
ships, and round and round the ships, 
and with the ships, and by the ships, and 
under the ships, staring, and clambering; 
— these the only quite beautiful things 
he can see in all the world, except the sky; 
but these, when the sun is on their sails, 
filling or falling, endlessly disordered by 
sway of tide and stress of anchorage, [240 
beautiful unspeakably; which ships also 
are inhabited by glorious creatures — 
red-faced sailors, with pipes, appearing 
over the gunwales, true knights, over 
their castle parapets — the most angelic 
beings in the whole compass of London 
world. And Trafalgar happening long 
before we can draw ships, we, neverthe- 
less, coax all current stories out of the 
wounded sailors, do our best at pres- [250 
ent to show Nelson's funeral streaming 
up the Thames; and vow that Trafalgar 
shall have its tribute of memory some 



RUSKIN 



66i 



day. Which, accordingly, is accom- 
pHshed — once, with all our might, for its 
death; twice, with all our might, for its 
victory; thrice, in pensive farewell to the 
old Temeraire, and, with it, to that order 
of things. 

Now this fond companying with [260 
sailors must have divided his time, it 
appears to me, pretty equally between 
Covent Garden and Wapping (allowing for 
incidental excursions to Chelsea on one 
side, and Greenwich on the other), which 
time he would spend pleasantly, but not 
magnificently, being limited in pocket- 
money, and leading a kind of "Poor- 
Jack" life on the river. 

In some respects, no life could be [270 
better for a lad. But it was not calcu- 
lated to make his ear fine to the niceties 
of language, nor form his moralities on an 
entirely regular standard. Picking up 
his first scraps of vigorous English chiefly 
at Deptford and in the markets, and his 
first ideas of female tenderness and beauty 
among nymphs of the barge and the 
barrow, — another boy might, perhaps, 
have become what people usually term [280 
"vulgar." But the original make and 
frame of Turner's mind being not vulgar, 
but as nearly as possible a combination 
of the minds of Keats an^ Dante, joining 
capricious waywardness, and intense open- 
ness to every fine pleasure of sense, and 
hot defiance of formal precedent, with a 
quite infinite tenderness, generosity, and 
desire of justice and truth— this kind 
of mind did not become vulgar, but [290 
very tolerant of vulgarity, even fond of 
it in some forms; and on the outside, 
visibly infected by it, deeply enough; the 
curious result, in its combination of ele- 
ments, being to most people wholly in- 
comprehensible. It was as if a cable had 
been woven of blood-crimson silk, and 
then tarred on the outside. People 
handled it, and the tar came off on their 
hands; red gleams were seen through [300 
the black, underneath, at the places where 
it had been strained. Was it ochre? — 
said the world — or red lead? 

Schooled thus in manners, literature, 
and general moral principles at Chelsea 
and Wapping, we have finally to inquire 
concerning the most important point 



of all. We have seen the principal dif- 
ferences between this boy and Giorgione, 
as respects sight of the beautiful, [310 
understanding of poverty, of commerce, 
and of order of battle; then follows an- 
other cause of difference in our trainings 
not slight, — the aspect of religion, namely, 
in the neighborhood of Covent Garden. 
I say the aspect; for that was all the lad 
could judge by. Disposed, for the most 
part, to learn chiefly by his eyes, in this 
special matter he finds there is really no 
other way of learning. His father had [320 
taught him "to lay one penny upon an- 
other." Of mother's teaching, we hear 
of none; of parish pastoral teaching, the 
reader may guess how much. 

I chose Giorgione rather than Veronese 
to help me in carrying out this parallel; 
because I do not find in Giorgione's work 
any of the early Venetian monarchist 
element. He seems to me to have belonged 
more to an abstract contemplative [330 
school. I may be wrong in this; it is no 
matter; — suppose it were so, and that he 
came down to Venice somewhat recusant, 
or insentient, concerning the usual priestly 
doctrines of his day, — how would the 
Venetian religion, from an outer intel- 
lectual standing-point, have looked to him? 

He would have seen it to be a religion 
indisputably powerful in human affairs; 
often very harmfully so; sometimes [340 
devouring widows' houses, and consum- 
ing the strongest and fairest from among 
the young; freezing into merciless bigotry 
the policy of the old: also, on the other 
hand, animating national courage, and 
raising souls, otherwise sordid, into hero- 
ism: on the whole, always a real and 
great power; served with daily sacrifice 
of gold, time, and thought; putting forth 
its claims, if hypocritically, at least [350 
in bold hypocrisy, not waiving any atom 
of them in doubt or fear; and, assuredly, 
in large measure, sincere, believing in 
itself, and believed: a goodly system, 
moveover, in aspect; gorgeous, harmoni- 
ous, mysterious ; — a thing which had either 
to be obeyed or combated, but could not 
be scorned. A religion towering o\-er 
all the city — many-buttressed — luminous 
in marble stateliness, as the dome [360 
of our Lady of Safety shines over the 



662 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



sea; many- voiced also, giving, over all 
the eastern seas, to the sentinel his 
watchword, to the soldier his war-cry; 
and, on the lips of all who died for Venice, 
shaping the whisper of death. 

I suppose the boy Turner to have re- 
garded the religion of his city also from an 
external intellectual standing-point. 

What did he see in Maiden Lane? [370 

Let not the reader be offended with 
me; I am willing to let him describe, at 
his own pleasure, what Turner saw there; 
but to me, it seems to have been this. A 
religion maintained occasionally, even 
the whole length of the lane, at point of 
constable's staff; but, at other times, 
placed under the custody of the beadle, 
within certain black and unstately iron 
railings of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. [380 
Among the wheelbarrows and over the 
vegetables, no perceptible dominance of 
religion; in the narrow, disquieted streets, 
none; in the tongues, deeds, daily ways 
of Maiden Lane, little. Some honesty, 
indeed, and English industry, and kind- 
ness of heart, and general idea of justice; 
but faith, of any national kind, shut up 
from one Sunday to the next, not artisti- 
cally beautiful even in those Sab- [390 
batical exhibitions ; its paraphernalia being 
chiefly of high pews, heavy elocution, and 
cold grimnesS of behavior. 

What chiaroscuro belongs to it — (de- 
pendent mostly on candlelight), — we will, 
however, draw considerately; no goodli- 
ness of escutcheon, nor other respecta- 
bility being omitted, and the best of their 
results confessed, a meek old woman and 
a child being let into a pew, for whom [400 
the reading by candlelight will be bene- 
ficial. 

For the rest, this religion seems to him 
discreditable — -discredited — not believing 
in itself; putting forth its authority in a 
cowardly way, watching how far it might 
be tolerated, continually shrinking, dis- 
claiming, fencing, finessing; divided against 
itself, not by stormy rents, but by thin 
fissures, and splittings of plaster [410 
from the walls. Not to be either obeyed, 
or combated, by an ignorant, yet clear- 
sighted youth; only to be scorned. And 
scorned not one whit the less, though 
also the dome dedicated to // looms high 



over distant winding of the Thames; as 
St. Mark's campanile rose, for goodly 
landmark, over mirage of lagoon. For 
St. Mark ruled over life; the Saint of Lon- 
don over death; St. Mark over St. [420 
Mark's Place, but St. Paul over St. Paul's 
Churchyard. 

Under these influences pass away the 
first reflective hours of life, with such con- 
clusion as they can reach. In conse- 
quence of a fit of illness, he was taken — 
I cannot ascertain in what year — to live 
with an aunt, at Brentford; and here, 
I believe, received some schooling, which 
he seems to have snatched vigor- [430 
ously; getting knowledge, at least by 
translation, of the more picturesque clas- 
sical authors, which he turned presently 
to use, as we shall see. Hence also, walks 
about Putney and Twickenham in the 
summer time acquainted him with the 
look of English meadow-ground in its 
restricted states of paddock and park; 
and with some round-headed appearances 
of trees, and stately entrances to [440 
houses of mark: the avenue at Bushy, 
and the iron gates and carved pillars of 
Hampton, impressing him apparently with 
great awe and admiration; so that in 
after life his little country house is, — of 
all places in the world, — at Twickenham! 
Of swans and reedy shores he now learns 
the soft motion and the green mystery, 
in a way not to be forgotten. 

And at last fortune wills that the [450 
lad's true life shall begin; and one summer's 
evening, after various w^onderful stage- 
coach experiences on the north road, 
which gave him a love of stage-coaches 
ever after, he finds himself sitting alone 
among the Yorkshire hills. For the first 
time, the silence of Nature round him, 
her freedom sealed to him, her glory 
opened to him. Peace at last; no roll 
of cart-wheel, nor mutter of sullen [460 
voices in the back shop; but curlew-cry 
in space of heaven, and welling of bell- 
toned streamlet by its shadowy rock. 
Freedom at last. Dead-wall, dark railing, 
fenced field, gated garden, all passed away 
like the dream of a prisoner; and behold, 
far as foot or eye can race or range, the 
moor, and cloud. Loveliness at last. 
It is here, then, among these deserted 



RUSKIN 



663 



vales! Not among men. Those pale, [470 
poverty-struck, or cruel faces; — that mul- 
titudinous, marred humanity — are not 
the only things that God has made. Here 
is something He has made which no one 
has marred. Pride of purple rocks, and 
river pools of blue, and tender wilderness 
of glittering trees, and misty lights of 
evening on immeasurable hills. 

Beauty, and freedom, and peace; and 
yet another teacher, graver than [480 
these. Sound preaching at last here, in 
Kirkstall crypt, concerning fate and life. 
Here, where the dark pool reflects the 
chancel pillars, and the cattle lie in un- 
hindered rest, the soft sunshine on their 
dappled bodies, instead of priests' vest- 
ments; their white furry hair rufifled a 
little, fitfully, by the evening wind, deep- 
scented from the meadow thyme. 

Consider deeply the import to him of [490 
this, his first sight of ruin, and compare it 
with the effect of the architecture that 
was around Giorgione. There were in- 
deed aged buildings, at Venice, in his 
time, but none in decay. All ruin was 
removed, and its place filled as quickly 
as in our London; but filled always by 
architecture loftier and more wonderful 
than that whose place it took, the boy 
himself happy to work upon the [500 
walls of it; so that the idea of the passing 
away of the strength of men and beauty 
of their works never could occur to him 
sternly. Brighter and brighter the cities 
of Italy had been rising and broadening 
on hill and plain, for three hundred years. 
He saw only strength and immortality, 
could not but paint both; conceived the 
form of man as deathless, calm with power, 
and fiery with life. [510 

Turner saw the exact reverse of this. 
In the present work of men, meanness, 
aimlessness, unsightliness : thin- walled, 
lath-divided, narrow-garreted houses of 
clay; booths of a darksome Vanity Fair, 
busily base. 

But on Whitby Hill, and by Bolton 
Brook, remained traces of other handi- 
work. Men who could build had been 
there; and who also had wrought, not [520 
merely for their own days. But to what 
purpose? Strong faith, and steady hands, 
and patient souls — can this, then, be all 



you have left! this the sum of your doing 
on the earth! — a nest whence the night- 
owl may whimper to the brook, and a 
ribbed skeleton of consumed arches, 
looming above the bleak banks of mist, 
from its cliff to the sea? 

As the strength of men to Giorgione, [530 
to Turner their weakness and vileness, 
were alone visible. They themselves, 
unworthy or ephemeral; their work, des- 
picable, or decayed. In the Venetian's 
eyes, all beauty depended on man's pres- 
ence and pride; in Turner's, on the soli- 
tude he had left, and the humiliation he 
had suffered. 

And thus the fate and issue of all his 
work were determined at once. He [540 
must be a painter of the strength of 
nature, there was no beauty elsewhere 
than in that; he must paint also the 
labor and sorrow and passing away of 
men: this was the great human truth 
visible to him. 

Their labor, their sorrow, and their 
death. Mark the three. Labor: by 
sea and land, in field and city, at forge 
and furnace, helm and plough. No [550 
pastoral indolence nor classic pride shall 
stand between him and the troubling of 
the world; still less between him and 
the toil of his country, — blind, tormented, 
unwearied, marvellous England. 

Also their Sorrow: Ruin of all their 
glorious work, passing away of their 
thoughts and their honor, mirage of 
pleasure. Fallacy of Hope; gathering of 
weed on temple step; gaining of wave [560 
on deserted strand; weeping of the mother 
for the children, desolate by her breath- 
less first-born in the streets of the city, 
desolate by her last sons slain, among the 
beasts of the field. 

And their Death. That old Greek 
question again; — yet unanswered. The 
unconquerable spectre still flitting among 
the forest trees at twilight; rising ribbed 
out of the sea-sand; — white, a [570 
strange Aphrodite, — out of the sea- foam; 
stretching its gray, cloven wings among 
the clouds; turning the light of their sun- 
sets into blood. This has to be looked 
upon, and in a more terrible shape than 
ever Salvator or Diirer saw it. The wreck 
of one guilty country does not infer the 



664 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



ruin of all countries, and need not cause 
general terror respecting the laws of the 
universe. Neither did the orderly and [580 
narrow succession of domestic joy and 
sorrow in a small German community 
bring the question in its breadth, or in any 
unresolvable shape, before the mind of 
Diirer. But the English death — the Euro- 
pean death of the nineteenth century — 
was of another range and power ; more ter- 
rible a thousandfold in its merely physi- 
cal grasp and grief; more terrible, incal- 
culably, in its mystery and shame. [590 
What were the robber's casual pang, or 
the range of the flying skirmish, compared 
to the work of the axe, and the sword, 
and the famine, which was done during 
this man's youth on all the hills and 
plains of the Christian earth, from Mos- 
cow to Gibraltar? He was eighteen years 
old when Napoleon came down on Areola. 
Look on the map of Europe and count 
the blood-stains on it, between [600 
Areola and Waterloo. 

Not alone those blood-stains on the 
Alpine snow, and the blue of the Lom- 
bard plain. The English death was be- 
fore his eyes also. No decent, calculable, 
consoled dying; no passing to rest like 
that of the aged burghers of Nuremberg 
town. No gentle processions to church- 
yards among the fields, the bronze crests 
bossed deep on the memorial tab- [610 
lets, and the skylark singing above them 
from among the corn. But the life tram- 
pled out in the slime of the street, crushed 
to dust amidst the roaring of the wheel, 
tossed countlessly away into howling 
winter wind along five hundred leagues 
of rock-fanged shore. Or, worst of all, 
rotted down to forgotten graves through 
years of ignorant patience, and vain seek- 
ing for help from man, for hope in [620 
God — infirm, imperfect yearning, as of 
motherless infants starving at the dawn; 
oppressed royalties of captive thought, 
vague ague-fits of bleak, amazed despair. 

A goodly landscape this, for the lad to 
paint, and under a goodly light. Wide 
enough the light was, and clear; no more 
Salvator's lurid chasm on jagged horizon, 
nor Diirer's spotted rest of sunny gleam 
on hedgerow and field; but light [630 
over all the world. Full shone now its 



awful globe, one pallid charnel-house, — 
a ball strewn bright with human ashes, 
glaring in poised sway beneath the sun, 
all blinding-white with death from pole 
to pole, — ^death, not of myriads of poor 
bodies only, but of will, and mercy, and 
conscience; death, not once inflicted on 
the flesh, but daily, fastening on the spirit; 
death, not silent or patient, wait- [640 
ing his appointed hour, but voiceful, 
venomous; death with the taunting word, 
and burning grasp, and infixed sting. 

"Put ye in the sickle, for the harvest 
is ripe." The word is spoken in our ears 
continually to other reapers than the 
angels,— to the busy skeletons that never 
tire for stooping. When the measure of 
iniquity is full, and it seems that another 
day might bring repentance and [650 
redemption, — "Put ye in the sickle." 
When the young life has been wasted all 
away, and the eyes are just opening upon 
the tracks of ruin, and faint resolution 
rising in the heart for nobler things, — 
"Put ye in the sickle." When the rough- 
est blows of fortune have been borne 
long and bravely, and the hand is just 
stretched to grasp its goal, — "Put ye in 
the sickle." And when there are but [660 
a few in the midst of a nation, to save it, 
or to teach, or to cherish ; and all its life is 
bound up in those few golden ears, — 
"Put ye in the sickle, pale reapers, and 
pour hemlock for your feast of harvest 
home." 

This was the sight which opened on 
the young eyes, this the watchword 
sounding within the heart of Turner in 
his youth. [670 

So taught, and prepared for his life's 
labor, sat the boy at last alone among his 
fair English hills; and began to paint, with 
cautious toil, the rocks, and fields, and 
trickling brooks, and soft white clouds of 
heaven. 



From THE STONES OF VENICE 

St. Mark's 

"And so Barnabas took Mark, and 
sailed unto Cyprus." If as the shores of 
Asia lessened upon his sight, the spirit 
of prophecy had entered into the heart 



RUSKIN 



665 



of the weak disciple who had turned back 
when his hand was on the plough, and 
who had been judged, by the chiefest of 
Christ's captains, unworthy thencefor- 
ward to go forth with him to the work, 
how wonderful would he have thought [10 
it, that by the lion symbol in future ages 
he was to be represented among menl 
how woful, that the war-cry of his name 
should so often reanimate the rage of 
the soldier, on those very plains where 
he himself had failed in the courage of the 
Christian, and so often dye with fruitless 
blood that very Cypriot Sea, over whose 
waves, in repentance and shame, he 
was following the Son of Consola- [20 
tion! 

That the Venetians possessed them- 
selves of his body in the ninth century, 
there appears no sufficient reason to 
doubt, nor that it was principally in con- 
sequence of their having done so, that 
they chose him for their patron saint. 
There exists, however, a tradition that 
before he went into Egypt he had founded 
the church at Aquileia, and was thus [30 
in some sort the first bishop of the Vene- 
tian isles and people. I believe that this 
tradition stands on nearly as good grounds 
as that of St. Peter having been the first 
bishop of Rome; but, as usual, it is en- 
riched by various later additions and em- 
bellishments, much resembling the stories 
told respecting the church of Murano. 
Thus we find it recorded by the Santo 
Padre who compiled the Vite de^ Santi [40 
spettanti alle Chiese di Venezia, that "St. 
Mark having seen the people of Aquileia 
well grounded in religion, and being called 
to Rome by St. Peter, before setting oQ. 
took with him the holy bishop Herma- 
goras, and went in a small boat to the 
marshes of Venice. There were at that 
period some houses built upon a certain 
high bank called Rialto, and the boat 
being driven by the wind was an- [50 
chored in a marshy place, when St. Mark, 
snatched into ecstasy, heard the voice 
of an angel saying to him: 'Peace be to 
thee, Mark; here shall thy body rest.'" 
The angel goes on to foretell the building 
of "una stupenda, ne piii veduta Citta", 
but the fable is hardly ingenious enough 
to deserve farther relation. 



But whether St. Mark was first bishop 
of Aquileia or not, St. Theodore was [60 
the first patron of the city; nor can he 
yet be considered as having entirely ab- 
dicated his early right, as his statue, 
standing on a crocodile, still companions 
the winged lion on the opposing pillar 
of the piazzetta. A church erected to 
this Saint is said to have occupied, before 
the ninth century, the site of St. Mark's; 
and the traveller, dazzled by the bril- 
liancy of the great square, ought not [70 
to leave it without endeavoring to imag- 
ine its aspect in that early time, when 
it was a green field cloister-like and quiet, 
divided by a small canal, with a line of 
trees on each side; and extending between 
the two churches of St. Theodore and 
St. Gemanium, as the little piazza of 
Torcello lies between its "palazzo" and 
cathedral. 

But in the year 813, when the seat of [80 
government was finally removed to the 
Rialto, a Ducal Palace, built on the spot 
where the present one stands, with a 
Ducal Chapel beside it, gave a very dif- 
ferent character to the Square of St. 
Mark; and fifteen years later, the acquisi- 
tion of the body of the Saint, and its 
deposition in the Ducal Chapel, perhaps 
not yet completed, occasioned the in- 
vestiture of that chapel with all pos- [90 
sible splendor. St. Theodore was deposed 
from his patronship, and his church de- 
stroyed, to make room for the aggrandize- 
ment of the one attached to the Ducal 
Palace, and thenceforward known as 
"St. Mark's." 

This first church was, however, de- 
stroyed by fire, when the Ducal Palace was 
burned in the revolt against Candiano, 
in 976. It was partly rebuilt by his [100 
successor, Pietro Orseolo, on a larger 
scale; and, with the assistance of Byzan- 
tine architects, the fabric was carried on 
under successive Doges for nearly a hun- 
dred years; the main building being com- 
pleted in 107 1, but its incrustation with 
marble not till considerably later. It 
was consecrated on the Sth of October, 
10S5, according to Sansovino and the 
author of the Chicsa Diicale di S. [no 
Marco, in 1094 according to Lazari, but 
certainly between 10S4 and 1096, those 



666 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



years being the limits of the reign of Vital 
Falier; I incline to the supposition that 
it was soon after his accession to the 
throne in 1085, though Sansovino writes, 
by mistake, Ordelafo instead of Vital 
Falier. But, at all events, before the 
close of the eleventh centur\' the great 
consecration of the church took place. [120 
It was again injured by fire in 1106, but 
repaired; and from that time to the fall 
of Venice there was probably no Doge who 
did not in some shght degree embelHsh 
or alter the fabric, so that few parts of it 
can be pronounced boldly to be of any 
given date. Two periods of interference 
are, however, notable above the rest: the 
first, that in which the Gothic school 
had superseded the Byzantine to- [130 
wards the close of the fourteenth century, 
when the pinnacles, upper archivolts, and 
window traceries were added to the ex- 
terior, and the great screen with various 
chapels and tabernacle-work, to the in- 
terior; the second, when the Renaissance 
school superseded the Gothic, and the 
pupils of Titian and Tintoret substituted, 
over one half of the church, their own 
compositions for the Greek mosaics [140 
with which it was originally decorated; 
happily, though with no good will, having 
left enough to enable us to imagine and 
lament what they destroyed. Of this 
irreparable loss we shall have more to 
say hereafter; meantime, I wish only to 
fix in the reader's mind the succession of 
periods of alterations as firmly and simply 
as possible. 

We have seen that the main body of [150 
the church may be broadly stated to be 
of the eleventh century, the Gothic addi- 
tions of the fourteenth, and the restored 
mosaics of the seventeenth. . . . 

This, however, I only wish him to recol- 
lect in order that I may speak generally 
of the Byzantine architecture of St. 
Mark's, without leading him to suppose 
the whole church to have been built and 
decorated by Greek artists. Its later [160 
portions, with the single exception of the 
seventeenth-century mosaics, have been 
so dexterously accommodated to the 
original fabric that the general effect is 
still that of a Byzantine building; and I 
shall not, except when it is absolutely 



necessary, direct attention to the dis- 
cordant points, or weary the reader with 
anatomical criticism. Whatever in St. 
Mark's arrests the eye, or affects the [170 
feelings, is either Byzantine, or has been 
modified by Byzantine influence; and our 
inquiry into its architectural merits need 
not therefore be disturbed by the anxie- 
ties of antiquarianism, or arrested by the 
obscurities of chronology. 

And now I wish that the reader, before 
I bring him into St. Mark's Place, would 
imagine himself for a little time in a quiet 
English cathedral town, and walk [180 
with me to the west front of its cathedral. 
Let us go together up the more retired 
street, at the end of which we can see 
the pinnacles of one of the towers, and 
then through the low gray gateway, with 
its battlemented top and small latticed 
window in the centre, into the inner 
private-looking road or close, where noth- 
ing goes in but the carts of the tradesmen 
who supply the bishop and the chap- [190 
ter, and where there are little shaven 
grassplots, fenced in by neat- rails, before 
old-fashioned groups of somewhat diminu- 
tive and excessively trim houses, with 
little oriel and bay windows jutting out 
here and there, and deep wooden cornices 
and eaves painted cream color and white, 
and small porches to their doors in the 
shape of cockle-shells, or little, crooked, 
thick, indescribable wooden gables [200 
warped a little on one side; and so forward 
till we come to larger houses, also old- 
fashioned, but of red brick, and with 
gardens behind them, and fruit walls, 
which show here and there, among the 
nectarines, the vestiges of an old cloister 
arch or shaft, and looking in front on the 
cathedral square itself, laid out in rigid 
divisions of smooth grass and gravel 
walk, yet not uncheerful, especially [210 
on the sunny side, where the canons' chil- 
dren are walking with their nursery- 
maids. And so, taking care not to tread 
on the grass, we will go along the straight 
walk to the west front, and there stand 
for a time, looking up at its deep-pointed 
porches and the dark places between their 
pillars where there were statues once, 
and where the fragments, here and there, 
of a stately figure are still left, which [220 



RUSKIN 



667 



has in it the likeness of a king, perhaps 
indeed a king on earth, perhaps a saintly 
king long ago in heaven; and so higher 
and higher up to the great mouldering 
wall of rugged sculpture and confused 
arcades, shattered, and gray, and grisly 
with heads of dragons ,and mocking 
fiends, worn by the rain and swirling 
winds into yet unseemlier shape, and 
colored on their stony scales by the [230 
deep russet-orange lichen, melancholy 
gold; and so, higher still, to the bleak 
towers, so far above that the eye loses 
itself among the bosses of their traceries, 
though they are rude and strong, and 
only sees like a drift of eddying black 
points, now closing, now scattering, and 
now settling suddenly into invisible places 
among the bosses and flowers, the crowd 
of restless birds that fill the whole [240 
square with that strange clangor of theirs, 
so harsh and yet so soothing, like the 
cries of birds on a solitary coast between 
the cliffs and sea. 

Think for a little while of that scene, 
and the meaning of all its small formalisms, 
mixed with its serene sublimity. Esti- 
mate its secluded, continuous, drowsy 
felicities, and its evidence of the sense 
and steady performance of such kind [250 
of duties as can be regulated by the 
cathedral clock; and weigh the influence 
of those dark towers on all who have 
passed through the lonely square at their 
feet for centuries, and on all who have 
seen them rising far away over the wooded 
plain, or catching on their square masses 
the last rays of the sunset, when the city 
at their feet was indicated only by the 
mist at the bend of the river. And [260 
then let us quickly recollect that we are 
in Venice, and land at the extremity of 
the Calla Lunga San Moise, which may 
be considered as there answering to the 
secluded street that led us to our English 
cathedral gateway. 

We find ourselves in a paved alley, 
some se/en feet wide where it is mdest, 
full of people, and resonant with cries of 
itinerant salesmen, — a shriek in their [270 
beginning, and dying away into a kind of 
brazen ringing, all the worse for its con- 
finement between the high houses of the 
passage along which we have to make 



our way. Over-head, an inextricable 
confusion of rugged shutters, and iron 
balconies and chimney flues, pushed out 
on brackets to save room, and arched 
windows with projecting sills of Istrian 
stone, and gleams of green leaves [280 
here and there where a fig-tree branch 
escapes over a lower wall from some 
inner cortile, leading the eye up to the 
narrow stream of blue sky high over all. 
On each side, a row of shops, as densely 
set as may be, occupying, in fact, inter- 
vals between the square stone shafts, 
about eight feet high, which carry the first 
floors: intervals of which one is narrow 
and serves as a door; the other is, in [290 
the more respectable shops, wainscotted 
to the height of the counter and glazed 
above, but in those of the poorer trades- 
men left open to the ground, and the 
wares laid on benches and tables in the 
open air, the light in all cases entering at 
the front only, and fading away in a few 
feet from the threshold into a gloom 
which the eye from without cannot pene- 
trate, but which is generally broken [300 
by a ray or two from a feeble lamp at the 
back of the shop, suspended before a 
print of the Virgin. The less pious shop- 
keeper sometimes leaves his lamp un- 
lighted, and is contented with a penny 
print; the more religious one has his 
print colored and set in a little shrine with 
a gilded or figured fringe, with perhaps a 
faded flower or two on each side, and his 
lamp burning brilliantly. Here, at the [310 
fruiterer's, where the dark-green water- 
melons are heaped upon the counter like 
cannon balls, the Madonna has a taber- 
nacle of fresh laurel leaves; but the 
pewterer next door has let his lamp out, 
and there is nothing to be seen in his 
shop but the dull gleam of the studded 
patterns on the copper pans, hanging 
from his roof in the darkness. Next 
comes a "Vendita Frittole e Liquori," [320 
where the Virgin, enthroned in a very 
humble manner beside a tallow candle 
on a back shelf, presides over certain 
ambrosial morsels of a nature too ambigu- 
ous to be defined or enumerated. But a 
few steps farther on, at the regular wine- 
shop of the calle, where we are offered 
"Vino Nostrani a Soldi 28.32," the Ma- 



668 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



donna is in great glory, enthroned above 
ten or a dozen large red casks of three- [330 
year-old vintage, and flanked by goodly 
ranks of bottles of Maraschino, and two 
crimson lamps; and for the evening, when 
the gondoliers will come to drink out, 
under her auspices, the money they have 
gained during the day, she will have a 
whole chandelier. 

A yard or two farther, we pass the 
hostelry of the Black Eagle, and, glancing 
as we pass through the square door [340 
of marble, deeply moulded, in the outer 
wall, we see the shadows of its pergola of 
\dnes resting on an ancient well, with a 
pointed shield carved on its side; and so 
presently emerge on the bridge and 
Campo San Moise, whence to the entrance 
into St. Mark's Place, called the Bocca di 
Piazza (mouth of the square), the Vene- 
tian character is nearly destroyed, first 
by the frightful fagade of San Moise, [350 
which we will pause at another time to 
examine, and then by the modernizing 
of the shops as they near the piazza, and 
the mingling with the lower Venetian 
populace of lounging groups of English 
and Austrians. We will push fast through 
them into the shadow of the pillars at the 
end of the ''Bocca di Piazza," and then 
we forget them all; for between those 
pillars there opens a great light, and, [360 
in the midst of it, as we advance slowly, 
the vast tower of St. Mark seems to lift 
itself visibly forth from the level field of 
chequered stones; and, on each side, the 
countless arches prolong themselves into 
ranged symmetry, as if the rugged and 
irregular houses that pressed together 
above us in the dark alley had been struck 
back into sudden obedience and loveh' 
order, and all their rude casements [370 
and broken walls had been transformed 
into arches charged with goodly sculpture, 
and fluted shafts of delicate stone. 

And well may they fall back, for be- 
yond those troops of ordered arches there 
rises a \'ision out of the earth, and all the 
great square seems to have opened from 
it in a kind of awe, that we may see it 
far away; — a multitude of pillars and 
white domes, clustered into a long [3S0 
low pyramid of colored light; a treasure- 
heap, it seems, partly of gold, and partly 



of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed 
beneath into five great vaulted porches, 
ceiled with fair mosaic, and beset with 
sculpture of alabaster, clear as amber 
and delicate as ivory, — sculpture fan- 
tastic and involved, of palm leaves and 
lilies, and grapes and pomegranates, and 
birds clinging and fluttering among [390 
the branches, all twined together into an 
endless network of buds and plumes; 
and, in the midst of it, the solemn forms 
of angels, sceptred, and robed to the feet, 
and leaning to each other across the 
gates, their figures indistinct among the 
gleaming of the golden ground through 
the leaves beside them, interrupted and 
dim, like the morning light as it faded 
back among the branches of Eden, [400 
when first its gates were angel-guarded 
long ago. And round the walls of the 
porches there are set pillars of variegated 
stones, jasper and porphyry, and deep- 
green serpentine spotted with flakes of 
snow, and marbles, that half refuse and 
half yield to the sunshine, Cleopatra- 
like, "their bluest veins to kiss" — the 
shadow, as it steals back from them, 
revealing line after line of azure un- [410 
dulation, as a receding tide leaves the 
waved sand; their capitals rich with 
interwoven tracery, rooted knots of herb- 
age, and drifting leaves of acanthus and 
vine, and mystical signs, all beginning 
and ending in the Cross; and above them, 
in the broad archivolts, a continuous 
chain of language and of life — angels, and 
the signs of heaven, and the labors of 
men, each in its appointed season [420 
upon the earth; and above these, another 
range of glittering pinnacles, mLxed with 
white arches edged with scarlet flowers, — 
a confusion of delight, amidst which the 
breasts of the Greek horses are seen 
blazing in their breadth of golden strength, 
and the St. Mark's Lion, lifted on a blue 
field covered with stars, until at last, as 
if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break 
into a marble foam, and toss them- [430 
selves far into the blue sky in flashes and 
wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the 
breakers on the Lido shore had been 
frost-bound before they fell, and the sea- 
nymphs had inlaid them with coral and 
amethyst. 



RUSKIN 



669 



Between that grim cathedral of England 
and this, what an interval! There is a 
type of it in the very birds that haunt 
them; for, instead of the restless [440 
crowd, hoarse-voiced and sable-winged, 
drifting on the bleak upper air, the St. 
Mark's porches are full of doves, that 
nestle among the marble foliage, and 
mingle the soft iridescence of their living 
plumes, changing at every motion, with 
the tints, hardly less lovely, that have 
stood unchanged for seven hundred 
years. 

And what effect has this splendor [450 
on those who pass beneath it? You may 
walk from sunrise to sunset, to and fro, 
before the gateway of St. Mark's, and 
you will not see an eye lifted to it, nor a 
countenance brightened by it. Priest and 
layman, soldier and civilian, rich and 
poor, pass by it alike regardlessly. Up 
to the very recesses of the porches, the 
meanest tradesmen of the city push their 
counters; nay, the foundations of its [460 
pillars are themselves the seats — not 
"of them that sell doves" for sacrifice, 
but of the vendors of toys and carica- 
tures. Round the whole square in front 
of the church there is almost a continuous 
line of cafes, where the idle Venetians 
of the middle classes lounge, and read 
empty journals; in its centre the Austrian 
bands play during the time of vespers, 
their martial music jarring with the [470 
organ notes, — the march drowning the 
miserere, and the sullen crowd thicken- 
ing round them, — a crowd, which, if it 
had its will, would stiletto every soldier 
that pipes to it. And in the recesses of 
the porches, all day long, knots of men 
of the lowest classes, unemployed and 
listless, lie basking in the sun like lizards; 
and unregarded children, — every heavy 
glance of their young eyes full of des- [480 
peration and stony depravity, and their 
throats hoarse with cursing, — gamble, and 
fight, and snarl, and sleep, hour after 
hour, clashing their bruised centesimi 
upon the marble ledges of the church 
porch. And the images of Christ and 
His angels look down upon it continu- 
ally. 



From TIME AND TIDE 
Letter XV 

The Nature of Theft by Unjust 
Profits. — Crime Can Finally be 
• Arrested Only by Education 

The first methods of polite robbery, by 
dishonest manufacture, and by debt, of 
which we have been hitherto speaking, 
are easily enough to be dealt with and 
ended, when once men have a mind to 
end them. But the third method of 
polite robbery, by dishonest acquisition, 
has many branches, and is involved 
among honest arts of acquisition, so that 
it is difficult to repress the one with- [10 
out restraining the other. 

Observe, first, large fortunes cannot 
honestly be made by the work of one 
man's hands or head. If his work bene- 
fits multitudes, and involves position of 
high trust, it may be (I do not say that 
it is) expedient to reward him with great 
wealth or estate; but fortune of this kind 
is freely given in gratitude for benefit, not 
as repayment for labor. Also, men [20 
of peculiar genius in any art, if the public 
can enjoy the product of their genius, 
may set it at almost any price they 
choose; but this, I wall show you when I 
come to speak of art, is unlawful on their 
part, and ruinous to their own powers. 
Genius must not be sold; the sale of it 
involves, in a transcendental, but per- 
fectly true sense, the guilt both of simony 
and prostitution. Your labor only [30 
may be sold; your soul must not. 

Now, by fair pay for fair labor, accord- 
ing to the rank of it, a man can obtain 
means of comfortable, or if he needs it, 
refined life. But he cannot obtain large 
fortune. Such fortunes as are now the 
prizes of commerce can be made only in 
one of three ways: — 

1. By obtaining command over the 
labor of multitudes of other men, and {40 
taxing it for our own profit. 

2. By treasure-trove, — as of mines, 
useful vegetable products, and the like, — 
in circumstances putting them under our 
own exclusive control. 

3. By speculation (commercial gam- 
bling). The first two of these means of 



byo 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



obtaining riches are, in some forms and 
within certain Umits, lawful, and advan- 
tageous to the State. The third is [50 
entirely detrimental to it; for in all cases 
of profit derived from speculation, at 
best, what one man gains another loses; 
and the net result to the State is zero 
(pecuniarily), with the loss of time and 
ingenuity spent in the transaction; be- 
sides the disadvantage involved in the 
discouragement of the losing party, and 
the corrupted moral natures of both. 
This is the result of speculation at its [60 
best. At its worst, not only B. loses what 
A. gains (having taken his fair risk of 
such loss for his fair chance of gain), 
but C. and D., who never had any chance 
at all, are drawn in by B.'s fall, and the 
final result is that A. sets up his carriage 
on the collected sum which was once 
a means of living to a dozen families. 

Nor is this all. For while real com- 
merce is founded on real necessities or [70 
uses, and limited by these, speculation, 
of which the object is merely gain, seeks 
to excite imaginary necessities and popu- 
lar desires, in order to gain its temporary 
profit from the supply of them. So that 
not only the persons who lend their 
money to it will be finally robbed, but 
the work done with their money will be 
for the most part useless, and thus the 
entire body of the public injured as [80 
well as the persons concerned in the 
transaction. Take, for instance, the 
architectural decorations of railways 
throughout the kingdom, — representing 
many millions of money for which no 
farthing of dividend can ever be forth- 
coming. The public will not be induced 
to pay the smallest fraction of higher fare 
to Rochester or Dover, because the iron- 
work of the bridge which carries them [90 
over the Thames is covered with floral 
cockades, and the piers of it edged with 
ornamental cornices. All that work is 
simply put there by the builders that 
they may. put the percentage upon it 
into their own pockets; and the rest of 
the money being thrown into that floral 
form, there is an end of it, as far as the 
shareholders are concerned. Millions 
upon millions have thus been spent, [100 
within the last twenty years, on orna- 



mental arrangements of zigzag bricks, 
black and blue tiles, cast-iron foliage, 
and the like; of which millions, as I said, 
not a penny can ever return into the 
shareholders' pockets, nor contribute to 
public speed or safety on the line. It is 
all sunk forever in ornamental architec- 
ture, and (trust me for this!) all that 
architecture is bad. As such, it had [no 
incomparably better not have been built. 
Its only result will be to corrupt what 
capacity of taste or right pleasure in such 
work we have yet left to us! And con- 
sider a little, what other kind of result 
than that might have been attained if all 
those millions had been spent usefully: 
say, in buying land for the people, or 
building good houses for them, or (if it 
had been imperatively required to [120 
be spent decoratively) in laying out gar- 
dens and parks for them, — or buying 
noble works of art for their permanent 
possession, — or, best of all, establishing 
frequent public schools and Hbraries! 
Count what those lost millions would 
have so accomplished for you! But you 
left the affair to '.'supply and demand," 
and the British public had not brains 
enough to "demand" land, or lodg- [130 
ing, or books. It "demanded" cast-iron 
cockades and zigzag cornices, and is 
"supplied" with them, to its beatitude 
for evermore. 

Now, the theft we first spoke of, by 
falsity of workmanship or material, is, 
indeed, so far worse than these thefts by 
dishonest acquisition, that there is no 
possible excuse for it on the ground of 
self-deception; while many specula- [140 
five thefts are committed by persons who 
really mean to do no harm, but think the 
system on the whole a fair one, and do 
the best they can in it for themselves. 
But in the real fact of the crime, when 
consciously committed, in the numbers 
reached by its injury, in the degree of 
suffering it causes to those whom it ruins, 
in the baseness of its calculated betrayal 
of implicit trust, in the yet more per- [150 
feet vileness of the obtaining such trust 
by misrepresentation, only that it may 
be betrayed, and in the impossibility that 
the crime should be at all committed, 
except by persons of good position and 



RUSKIN 



671 



large knowledge of the world, — what 
manner of theft is so wholly unpardon- 
able, so inhuman, so contrary to every 
law and instinct which binds and ani- 
mates society? [160 

And then consider farther, how many 
of the carriages that glitter in our streets 
are driven, and how many of the stately 
houses that gleam among our English 
fields are inhabited, by this kind of thief! 

I happened to be reading this morning 
(29th March) some portions of the Lent 
services, and I came to a pause over the 
familiar words, "And with Him they 
crucified two thieves." Have you [170 
ever considered (I speak to you now as a 
professing Christian) why, in the accom- 
plishment of the "numbering among 
transgressors," the transgressors chosen 
should have been especially thieves — not 
murderers, nor, as far as we know, sinners 
by any gross violence? Do you observe 
how the sin of theft is again and again 
indicated as the chiefly antagonistic one 
to the law of Christ? "This he said, [180 
not that he cared for the poor, but be- 
cause he was a thief, and had the bag" 
(of Judas). And again, though Barabbas 
was a leader of sedition and a murderer 
besides — (that the popular election might 
be in all respects perfect) — yet St. John, 
in curt and conclusive account of him, 
fastens again on the theft. "Then 
cried they all again saying, Not this man, 
but Barabbas. Now Barabbas was [190 
a robber." I believe myself the reason 
to be that theft is indeed, in its subtle 
forms, the most complete and excuseless 
of human crimes. Sins of violence usually 
have passion to excuse them: they may 
be the madness of moments; or they may 
be apparently the only means of extrica- 
tion from calamity. In other cases, they 
are the diseased habits of lower and 
brutified natures. But theft involv- [200 
ing deliberative intellect, and absence of 
passion, is the purest type of wilful iniq- 
uity, in persons capable of doing right. 
Which being so, it seems to be fast be- 
coming the practice of modern society to 
crucify its Christ indeed, as willingly as 
ever, in the persons of His poor; but by 
no means now to crucify its thieves be- 
side Him! It elevates its thieves after 



another fashion; sets them upon an [210 
hill, that their light may shine before 
men, and that all may see their good 
works, and glorify their Father in — the 
Opposite of Heaven. 

I think your trade parliament will have 
to put an end to this kind of business 
somehow! But it cannot be done by 
laws merely, where the interests and cir- 
cumstances are so extended and complex. 
Nay, even as regards lower and more [220 
defined crimes, the assigned punishment 
is not to be thought of as a preventive 
means; but only as the seal of opinion 
set by society on the fact. Crime cannot 
be hindered by punishment; it will always 
find some shape and outlet, unpunishable 
or unclosed. Crime can only be truly 
hindered by letting no man grow up a 
criminal — by taking away the will to 
commit sin; not by mere punishment [230 
of its commission. Crime, small and 
great, can only be truly stayed by educa- 
tion — not the education of the intellect 
only, which is, on some men, wasted, 
and for others mischievous; but education 
of the heart, which is alike good and 
necessary for all. 



THE RELATION OF ART TO 
MORALS 

. . . And now I pass to the arts with 
which I have special concern, in which, 
though the facts are exactly the same, I 
shall have more difficulty in proving my 
assertion, because very few of us are as 
cognizant of the merit of painting as we 
are of that of language; and I can only 
show you whence that merit springs, after 
having thoroughly shown you in what it 
consists. But, in the meantime, I [10 
have simply to tell you, that the manual 
arts are as accurate exponents of ethical 
state, as other modes of expression; first, 
with absolute precision, of that of the 
workman; and then with precision, dis- 
guised by many distorting influences, of 
that of the nation to which it belongs. 

And, first, they are a perfect exponent 
of the mind of the workman: but, being 
so, remember, if the mind be great or [20 
complex, the art is not an easy book to 



672 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



read; for we must ourselves possess all 
the mental characters of which we are to 
read the signs. No man can read the 
evidence of labor who is not himself 
laborious, for he does not know what 
the work cost: nor can he read the evi- 
dence of true passion if he is not pas- 
sionate; nor of gentleness if he is not 
gentle: and the most subtle signs of [30 
fault and weakness of character he can 
only judge by having had the same faults 
to fight with. I myself, for instance, 
know impatient work, and tired work, 
better than most critics, because I am 
myself always impatient, and often tired: 
— so also, the patient and indefatigable 
touch of a mighty master becomes more 
wonderful to me than to others. Yet, 
wonderful in no mean measure it will [40 
be to you all, when I make it manifest; — 
and as soon as we begin our real work, 
and you have learned what it is to draw 
a true line, I shall be able to make mani- 
fest to you, — and undisputably so, — 
that the day's work of a man like Man- 
tegna or Paul Veronese consists of an 
unfaltering, uninterrupted, succession of 
movements of the hand more precise than 
those of the finest fencer: the pencil [50 
leaving one point and arriving at another, 
not only with unerring precision at the 
extremity of the line, but with an unerring 
and yet varied course — sometimes over 
spaces a foot or more in extent — yet a 
course so determined everywhere that 
either of these men could, and Veronese 
often does, draw a finished profile, or 
any other portion of the contour of the 
face, with one line, not afterwards [60 
changed. Try, first, to realize to your- 
selves the muscular precision of that 
action, and the intellectual strain of it; 
for the movement of a fencer is perfect 
in practised monotony; but the move- 
ment of the hand of a great painter is 
at every instant governed by direct and 
new intention. Then imagine that mus- 
cular firmness and subtlety, and the in- 
stantaneously selective and ordinant [70 
energy of the brain, sustained all day 
long, not only without fatigue, but with 
a visible joy in the exertion, like that 
which an eagle seems to take in the wave 
of his wings; and this all life long, and 



through long life, not only without failure 
of power, but with visible increase of it, 
until the actually organic changes of old 
age. And then consider, so far as you 
know anything of physiology, what [80 
sort of an ethical state of body and mind 
that means! — ethic through ages past! 
what fineness of race there must be to 
get it, what exquisite balance and sym- 
metry of the vital powers! And then, 
finally, determine for yourselves whether 
a manhood like that is consistent with 
any viciousness of soul, with any mean 
anxiety, any gnawing lust, any wretched- 
ness of spite or remorse, any conscious- [90 
ness of rebellion against law of God or 
man, or any actual, though unconscious 
violation of even the least law to which 
obedience is essential for the glory of 
life, and the pleasing of its Giver. 

It is, of course, true that many of the 
strong masters had deep faults of charac- 
ter, but their faults always show in their 
work. It is true that some could not 
govern their passions; if so, they died [100 
young, or they painted ill when old. But 
the greater part of our misapprehension 
in the whole matter is from our not hav- 
ing well known who the great painters 
were, and taking delight in the petty skill 
that was bred in the fumes of the taverns 
of the North, instead of theirs who 
breathed empyreal air, sons of the morn- 
ing, under the woods of Assisi and the 
crags of Cadore. [no 

It is true however also, as I have 
pointed out long ago, that the strong 
masters fall into two great divisions, one 
leading simple and natural lives, the 
other restrained in a Puritanism of the 
worship of beauty; and these two manners 
of life you may recognize in a moment by 
their work. Generally the naturalists 
are the strongest; but there are two of 
the Puritans, whose work if I can sue- [120 
ceed in making clearly understandable 
to you during my three years here, it is 
all I need care to do. But of these two 
Puritans one I cannot name to you, and 
the other I at present will not. One I 
cannot, for no one knows his name, except 
the baptismal one, Bernard, or "dear 
little Bernard" — Bernardino, called from 
his birthplace, (Luino, on the Lago Mag- 



RUSKTN 



673 



giore,) Bernard of Luino. The other [130 
is a Venetian, of whom many of you 
probably have never heard, and of whom, 
through me, you shall not hear, until I 
have tried to get some picture by him over 
to England. 

Observe then, this Puritanism in the 
worship of beauty, though sometimes 
weak, is always honorable and amiable, 
and the exact reverse of the false Puri- 
tanism, which consists in the dread or [140 
disdain of beauty. And in order to treat 
my subject rightly, I ought to proceed 
from the skill of art to the choice of its 
subject, and show you how the moral 
temper of the workman is shown by his 
seeking lovely forms and thoughts to 
express, as well as by the force of his hand 
in expression. But I need not now urge 
this part of the proof on you, because you 
are already, I believe, sufficiently [150 
conscious of the truth in this matter, and 
also I have already said enough of it in 
my writings; whereas I have not at all 
said enough of the infallibleness of fine 
technical work as a proof of every other 
good power. And indeed it was long be- 
fore I myself understood the true mean- 
ing of the pride of the greatest men in 
their mere execution, shown for a per- 
manent lesson to us, in the stories [160 
which, whether true or not, indicate with 
absolute accuracy the general conviction 
of great artists; — the stories of the con- 
test of Apelles and Protogenes in a line 
only, (of which I can promise you, you 
shall know the meaning to some purpose 
in a little while), — the story of the circle 
of Giotto, and especially, which you may 
perhaps not have observed, the expression 
of Diirer in his inscription on the [170 
drawings sent him by Raphael. These 
figures, he says, "Raphael drew and 
sent to Albert Diirer in Niirnberg, to 
show him" — What? Not his invention, 
nor his beauty of expression, but "sein 
Hand zu weisen," "to show him his 
hand." And you will find, as you ex- 
amine farther, that all inferior artists are 
continually trying to escape from the 
necessity of sound work, and either [180 
indulging themselves in their delights in 
subject, or pluming themselves on their 
noble motives for attempting what they 



cannot perform; (and observe, by the 
way, that a great deal of what is mis- 
taken for conscientious motive is nothing 
but a very pestilent, because very subtle, 
condition of vanity); whereas the great 
men always understand at once that the 
first morality of a painter, as of every- [190 
body else, is to know his business; and so 
earnest are they in this, that many, 
whose lives you would think, by the re- 
sults of their work, had been passed in 
strong emotion, have in reality subdued 
themselves, though capable of the very 
strongest passions, into a calm as absolute 
as that of a deeply sheltered mountain 
lake, which reflects every agitation of the 
clouds in the sky, and every change [200 
of the shadows on the hills, but is itself 
motionless. 

Finally, you must remember that great 
obscurity has been brought upon the 
truth in this matter by the want of in- 
tegrity and simplicity in our modern life. 
I mean integrity in the Latin sense, whole- 
ness. Everything is broken up, and min- 
gled in confusion, both in our habits and 
thoughts; besides being in great part [210 
imitative: so that you not only cannot 
tell what a man is, but sometimes you 
cannot tell whether he is, at all ! — whether 
you have indeed to do with a spirit, or 
only with an echo. And thus the same 
inconsistencies appear now, between the 
work of artists of merit and their per- 
sonal characters, as those which you find 
continually disappointing expectation in 
the lives of men of modern literary [220 
power; — the same conditions of society 
having obscured or misdirected the best 
qualities of the imagination, both in our 
literature and art. Thus there is no 
serious question with any of us as to the 
personal character of Dante and Giotto, 
of Shakespeare and Holbein; but we 
pause timidly in the attempt to analyze 
the moral laws of the art skill in recent 
poets, novelists, and painters. [230 

Let me assure you once for all, that as 
you grow older, if you enable yourselves 
to distinguish by the truth of your own 
lives, what is true in those of other men, 
you will gradually perceive that all good 
has its origin in good, never in evil; that 
the fact of either literature or painting 



674 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



being truly fine of their kind, whatever 
their mistaken aim, or partial error, is 
proof of their noble origin: and that, [240 
if there is indeed sterling value in the 
thing done, it has come of a sterling worth 
in the soul that did it, however alloyed or 
defiled by conditions of sin which are 
sometimes more appalling or more strange 
than those which all may detect in their 
own hearts, because they are part of a 
personality altogether larger than ours, 
and as far beyond our judgment in its 
darkness as beyond our following in [250 
its light. And it is sufl&cient warning 
against what some might dread as the 
probable effect of such a conviction on 
your own minds, namely, that you might 
permit yourselves in the weaknesses 
which you imagined to be allied to genius, 
when they took the form of personal 
temptations; — it is surely, I say, suffi- 
cient warning against so mean a folly, 
to discern, as you may with little [260 
pains, that, of all human existences, the 
lives of men of that distorted and tainted 
nobility of intellect are probably the 
most miserable. 

I pass to the second, and for us the more 
practically important question, What is 
the effect of noble art upon other men; 
what has it done for national morality 
in time past: and what effect is the ex- 
tended knowledge or possession of it [270 
likely to have upon us now? And here 
we are at once met by the facts, which 
are as gloomy as indisputable, that, while 
many peasant populations, among whom 
scarcely the rudest practice of art has 
ever been attempted, have lived in com- 
parative innocence, honor, and happi- 
ness, the worst foulness and cruelty of 
savage tribes have been frequently asso- 
ciated with fine ingenuities of decora- [280 
tive design; also, that no people has ever 
attained the higher stages of art skill, 
except at a period of its civilization which 
was sullied by frequent, violent, and even 
monstrous crime; and, lastly, that the 
attaining of perfection in art power, has 
been hitherto, in every nation, the ac- 
curate signal of the beginning of its 
ruin. 

Respecting which phenomena, ob- [290 
serve first, that although good never 



springs out of evil, it is developed to its 
highest by contention with evil. There 
are some groups of peasantry, in far-away 
nooks of Christian countries, who are 
nearly as innocent as lambs; but the 
morality which gives power to art is the 
morality of men, not of cattle. 

Secondly, the virtues of the inhabitants 
of many country districts are ap- [300 
parent, not real; their lives are indeed 
artless, but not innocent; and it is only 
the monotony of circumstances, and the 
absence of temptation, which prevent 
the exhibition of evil passions not less 
real because often dormant, nor less foul 
because shown only in petty faults, or 
inactive malignities. 

But you will observe also that absolute 
artlessness, to men in any kind of [310 
moral health, is impossible; they have 
always, at. least, the art by which they 
live — agriculture or seamanship; and in 
these industries, skilfully practised, you 
will find the law of their moral training; 
while, whatever the adversity of cir- 
cumstances, every rightly-minded peas- 
antry, such as that of Sweden, Denmark, 
Bavaria, or Switzerland, has associated 
with its needful industry a quite [320 
studied school of pleasurable art in dress; 
and generally also in song, and simple 
domestic architecture. 

Again, I need not repeat to you here 
what I endeavored to explain in the first 
lecture in the book I called The Two Paths, 
respecting the arts of savage races: but 
I may now note briefly that such arts are 
the result of an intellectual activity which 
has found no room to expand, and [330 
which the tyranny of nature or of man 
has condemned to disease through ar- 
rested growth. And where neither Chris- 
tianity, nor any other religion conveying 
some moral help, has reached, the animal 
energy of such races necessarily flames 
into ghastly conditions of evil, and the 
grotesque or frightful forms assumed by 
their art are precisely indicative of their 
distorted moral nature. [340 

But the truly great nations nearly 
always begin from a race possessing this 
imaginative power; and for some time 
their progress is very slow, and their state 
not one of innocence, but of feverish and 



MACAULAV 



67s 



faultful animal energy. This is gradually 
subdued and exalted into bright human 
life; the art instinct purifying itself with 
the rest of the nature, until social per- 
fectness is nearly reached; and then [350 
comes the period when conscience and 
intellect are so highly developed, that new 
forms of error begin in the inability to 
fulfil the demands of the one, or to answer 
the doubts of the other. Then the whole- 
ness of the people is lost; all kinds of 
hypocrisies and oppositions of science 
develop themselves; their faith is ques- 
tioned on one side, and compromised with 
on the other; wealth commonly in- [360 
creases at the same period to a destructive 
extent; luxury follows; and the ruin of 
the nation is then certain: while the arts, 
all this time, are simply, as I said at first, 
the exponents of each phase of its moral 
state, and no more control it in its political 
career than the gleam of the firefly guides 
its oscillation. It is true that their most 
splendid results are usually obtained in 
the swiftness of the power which is [370 
hurrying to the precipice; but to lay the 
charge of the catastrophe to the art by 
which it is illumined, is to find a cause for 
the cataract in the hues of its iris. It is 
true that the colossal vices belonging to 
periods of great national wealth (for 
wealth, you will find, is the real root of 
all evil) can turn every good gift and skill 
of nature or of man to evil purpose. If, 
in such times, fair pictures have been [380 
misused, how much more fair realities? 
And if Miranda is immoral to Caliban is 
that Miranda's fault? . . . 



THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD 
MACAULAY (1800-1859) 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

Oliver Goldsmith, one of the most 
pleasing English writers of the eighteenth 
century. He was of a Protestant and 
Saxon family which had been long settled 
in Ireland, and which had, like most 
other Protestant and Saxon families, 
been, in troubled times, harassed and put 
in fear by the native population. His 



father, Charles Goldsmith, studied in the 
reign of Queen Anne at the diocesan [10 
school at Elphin, became attached to 
the daughter of the schoolmaster, married 
her, took orders, and settled at a place 
called Pallas, in the county of Longford. 
There he with difficulty supported his 
wife and children on what he could earn, 
partly as a curate and partly as a farmer. 

At Pallas Oliver Goldsmith was born 
in November 1728. That spot was then, 
for all practical purposes, almost as [20 
remote from the busy and splendid 
capital in which his later years were 
passed, as any clearing in Upper 
Canada or any sheep-walk in Australasia 
now is. Even at this day those enthusiasts 
who venture to make a pilgrimage to the 
birthplace of the poet are forced to per- 
form the latter part of their journey on 
foot. The hamlet lies far from any high- 
road on a dreary plain which in wet [30 
weather is often a lake. The lanes would 
break any jaunting-car to pieces; and 
there are ruts and sloughs through which 
the most strongly-built wheels cannot 
be dragged. 

While Oliver was still a child, his 
father was presented to a living worth 
about £200 a year, in the county of West 
Meath. The family accordingly quitted 
their cottage in the wilderness for a [40 
spacious house on a frequented road, near 
the village of Lissoy. Here the boy was 
taught his letters by a maid-servant, 
and was sent in his seventh year to a vil- 
lage school kept by an old quarter-master 
on half-pay, who professed to teach 
nothing but reading, writing, and arith- 
metic, but who had an inexhaustible 
fund of stories about ghosts, banshees, 
and fairies, about the great Rap- [50 
paree chiefs, Baldearg O'Donnell and 
galloping Hogan, and about the exploits 
of Peterborough and Stanhope, the sur- 
prise of Monjuich, and the glorious dis- 
aster of Brihuega. This man must have 
been of the Protestant religion; but he 
was of the aboriginal race, and not only 
spoke the Irish language, but could pour 
forth unpremeditated Irish verses. OUver 
early became, and through life con- [60 
tinned to be, a passionate admirer of 
the Irish music, and especially of the 



676 



TEE VICTORIAN AGE 



compositions of Carolan, some of the 
last notes of whose harp he heard. It 
ought to be added that OUver, though by 
birth one of the Enghshry, and though 
connected by numerous ties with the 
established church, never showed the 
least sign of that contemptuous antipathy 
with which, in his days, the ruling [70 
minority in Ireland too generally regarded 
the subject majority. So far indeed was 
he from sharing the opinions and feelings 
of the caste to which he belonged, that 
he conceived an aversion to the Glorious 
and Immortal Memory, and, even when 
George the Third was on the throne, 
maintained that nothing but the restora- 
tion of the banished dynasty could save 
the country. [80 

From the humble academy kept by 
the old soldier Goldsmith was removed 
in his ninth year. He went to several 
grammar-schools, and acquired some 
knowledge of the ancient languages. His 
life at this time seems to have been far 
from happy. He had, as appears from 
the admirable portrait of him at Knowle, 
features harsh even to ugliness. The 
small-pox had set its mark on him [90 
with more than usual severity. His 
stature was small, and his limbs ill put 
together. Among boys little tenderness 
is shown to personal defects; and the 
ridicule excited by poor Oliver's appear- 
ance was heightened by a peculiar sim- 
plicity and a disposition to blunder which 
he retained to the last. He became the 
common butt of boys and masters, was 
pointed at as a fright in the play- [100 
ground, and flogged as a dunce in the 
schoolroom. When he had risen to 
eminence, those who had once derided 
him ransacked their memory for the 
events of his early years, and recited 
repartees and couplets which had dropped 
from him, and which, though little no- 
ticed at the time, were supposed, a quarter 
of a century later, to indicate the powers 
which produced the Vicar of Wake- [no 
field and the Deserted Village. 

In his seventeenth year Oliver went 
up to Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizar. 
The sizars paid nothing for food and 
tuition, and very little for lodging; but 
they had to perform some menial services 



from which they have long been relieved. 
They swept the court: they carried up 
the dinner to the fellows' table, and 
changed the plates and poured out [120 
the ale of the rulers of the society. Gold- 
smith was quartered, not alone, in a 
garret, on the window of which his name, 
scrawled by himself, is still read with 
interest.^ From such garrets many men 
of less parts than his have made their 
way to the woolsack or to the episcopal 
bench. But Goldsmith, while he suffered 
all the humiliations, threw away all the 
advantages of his situation. He neg- [130 
lected the studies of the place,, stood low 
at the examinations, was turned down 
to the bottom of his class for playing the 
buffoon in the lecture-room, was severely 
reprimanded for pumping on a constable, 
and was caned by a brutal tutor for giving 
a ball in the attic story of the college to 
some gay youths and damsels from the 
city. 

While Oliver was leading at Dublin [140 
a life divided between squalid distress 
and squalid dissipation, his father died, 
leaving a mere pittance. The youth ob- 
tained his bachelor's degree, and left the 
University. During some time the hum- 
ble dwelling to which his widowed mother 
had retired was his home. He was now 
in his twenty-first year; it was necessary 
that he should do something; and his 
education seemed to have fitted him [150 
to do nothing but to dress himself in 
gaudy colors, of which he was as fond as 
a magpie, to take a hand at cards, to sing 
Irish airs, to play the flute, to angle in 
summer, and to tell ghost stories by the 
fire in winter. He tried five or six pro- 
fessions in turn without success. He ap- 
plied for ordination; but, as he applied 
in scarlet clothes, he was speedily turned 
out of the episcopal palace. He then [160 
became tutor in an opulent family, but 
soon quitted his situation in consequence 
of a dispute about play. Then he deter- 
mined to emigrate to America. His rela- 
tions, with much satisfaction, saw him 
set out for Cork on a good horse, with 
thirty pounds in his pocket. But in six 

' The glass on which the name is written has, as we are in- 
formed by a writer in Notes and Queries (2nd S. ix. p. 91), 
been enclosed in a frame deposited in the Manuscript Room of 
the College Library, where it is still to be seen. (Macaulay. ) 



MACAU LAY 



677 



weeks he came back on a miserable hack, 
without a penny, and informed his mother 
that the ship in which he had taken [170 
his passage, having got a fair wind while 
he was at a party of pleasure, had sailed 
without him. Then he resolved to study 
the law. A generous kinsman advanced 
fifty pounds. With this sum Goldsmith 
went to Dublin, was enticed into a gaming- 
house, and lost every shilling. He then 
thought of medicine. A small purse was 
made up: and in his twenty-fourth year 
he was sent to Edinburgh. At Edin- [180 
burgh he passed eighteen months in 
nominal attendance on lectures, and 
picked up some superficial information 
about chemistry and natural history. 
Thence he went to Leyden, still pretend- 
ing to study physic. He left that cele- 
brated university, the third university 
at which he had resided, in his twenty- 
seventh year, without a degree, with the 
merest smattering of medical knowl- [190 
edge, and with no property but his clothes 
and his flute. His flute, however, proved 
a useful friend. He rambled on foot 
through Flanders, France, and Switzer- 
land, playing tunes which everywhere 
set the peasantry dancing, and which 
often procured for him a supper and a 
bed. He wandered as far as Italy. His 
musical performances, indeed, were not 
to the taste of the Italians, but he [200 
contrived to live on the alms which he 
obtained at the gates of convents. It 
should, however, be observed that the 
stories which he told about this part of 
his life ought to be received with great 
caution; for strict veracity was never one 
of his virtues; and a man who is ordinarily 
inaccurate in narration is likely to be 
more than ordinarily inaccurate when he 
talks about his own travels. Gold- [210 
smith, indeed, was so regardless of truth 
as to assert in print that he was present 
at a most interesting conversation be- 
tween Voltaire and Fontenelle, and that 
this conversation took place at Paris. 
Now it is certain that Voltaire never was 
within a hundred leagues of Paris during 
the whole time which Goldsmith passed 
on the Continent. 

In 1756 the wanderer landed at [220 
Dover, without a shilling, without a 



friend, and without a calling. He had, 
indeed, if his own unsupported evidence 
may be trusted, obtained from the Uni- 
versity of Padua a doctor's degree; but 
this dignity proved utterly useless to him. 
In England his flute was not in request; 
there were no convents; and he was forced 
to have recourse to a series of desperate 
expedients. He turned strolling [230 
player; but his face and figure were ill 
suited to the boards even of the humblest 
theatre. He pounded drugs and ran 
about London with phials for charitable 
chemists. He joined a swarm of beggars, 
which made its nest in Axe Yard. He 
was for a time usher of a school, and felt 
the miseries and humiliations of this situa- 
tion so keenly that he thought it a pro- 
motion to be permitted to earn his [240 
bread as a bookseller's hack; but he soon 
found the new yoke more galUng than the 
old one, and was glad to become an usher 
again. He obtained a medical appoint- 
ment in the service of the East India 
Company: but the appointment was 
speedily revoked. Why it was revoked 
we are not told. The subject was one on 
which he never liked to talk. It is prob- 
able that he was incompetent to per- [250 
form the duties of the place. Then he 
presented himself at Surgeons' Hall for 
examination, as mate to a naval hospital. 
Even to so humble a post he was found 
unequal. By this time the schoolmaster 
whom he had served for a morsel of food 
and the third part of a bed was no more. 
Nothing remained but to return to the 
lowest drudgery of Hterature. Goldsmith 
took a garret in a miserable court, [260 
to which he had to climb from the brink 
of Fleet Ditch by a dizzy ladder of flag- 
stones called Breakneck Steps. The 
court and the ascent have long disap- 
peared; but old Londoners will remember 
both. Here, at thirty, the unlucky ad- 
venturer sat down to toil like a galley 
slave. 

In the succeeding six years he sent to 
the press some things which have [270 
survived and many which have perished. 
He produced articles for re\aews, maga- 
zines, and newspapers; children's books 
which, bound in gilt paper and adorned 
with hideous woodcuts, appeared in the 



678 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



window of the once far-famed shop at the 
corner of Saint Paul's Churchyard; An 
Enquiry into the State of Polite Learning 
in Europe, which, though of Httle or no 
value, is still reprinted among his [280 
works; a Life of Beau Nash, which is not 
reprinted, though it well deserves to be 
so; a superficial and incorrect, but very 
readable, History of England, in a series 
of letters purporting to be addressed by 
a nobleman to his son; and some lively 
and amusing Sketches of London Society, 
in a series of letters purporting to be 
addressed by a Chinese traveller to his 
friends. All these works were anony- [290 
mous; but some of them were well known 
to be Goldsmith's; and he gradually rose 
in the estimation of the booksellers for 
whom he drudged. He was, indeed, em- 
phatically a popular writer. For accurate 
research or grave disquisition he was 
not well qualified by nature or by educa- 
tion. He knew nothing accurately: his 
reading had been desultory; nor had he 
meditated deeply on what he had [300 
read. He had seen much of the world; 
but he had noticed and retained little 
more of what he had seen than some 
grotesque incidents and characters which 
had happened to strike his fancy. But, 
though his mind was very scantily stored 
with materials, he used what materials 
he had in such a way as to produce a won- 
derful effect. There have been many 
greater writers; but perhaps no writer [310 
was ever more uniformly agreeable. His 
style was always pure and easy, and, on 
proper occasions, pointed and energetic. 
His narratives were always amusing, his 
descriptions always picturesque, his humor 
rich and joyous, yet not without an oc- 
casional tinge of amiable sadness. About 
everything that he wrote, serious or spor- 
tive, there was a certain natural grace 
and decorum, hardly to be expected [320 
from a man a great part of whose life 
had been passed among thieves and beg- 
gars, street-walkers and merry-andrews, in 
those squalid dens which are the reproach 
of great capitals. 

As his name gradually became known, 
the circle of his acquaintance widened. 
He was introduced to Johnson, who was 
then considered as the first of living Eng- 



lish writers; to Reynolds, the first of [330 
English painters; and to Burke, who had 
not yet entered Parliament, but who had 
distinguished himself greatly by his writ- 
ings and by the eloquence of his conversa- 
tion. With these eminent men Gold- 
smith became intimate. In 1763 he was 
one of the nine original members of that 
celebrated fraternity which has some- 
times been called the Literary Club, but 
which has always disclaimed that [340 
epithet, and still glories in the simple 
name of The Club. 

By this time Goldsmith had quitted 
his miserable dwelling at the top of Break- 
neck Steps, and had taken chambers in 
the more civilized region of the Inns of 
Court. But he was still often reduced to 
pitiable shifts. Towards the close of 1764 
his rent was so long in arrear that his 
landlady one morning called in the [350 
help of a sheriff's officer. The debtor, 
in great perplexity, dispatched a mes- 
senger to Johnson; and Johnson, always 
friendly, though often surly, sent back 
the messenger with a guinea, and promised 
to follow speedily. He came, and found 
that Goldsmith had changed the guinea, 
and was railing at the landlady over a 
bottle of Madeira. Johnson put the 
cork into the bottle, and entreated his [360 
friend to consider calmly how money was 
to be procured. Goldsmith said that he 
had a novel ready for the press. Johnson 
glanced at the manuscript, saw that there 
were good things in it, took it to a book- 
seller, sold it for £60, and soon returned 
with the money. The rent was paid; 
and the sheriff's officer withdrew. Ac- 
cording to one story. Goldsmith gave his 
landlady a sharp reprimand for her [370 
treatment of him: according to another, 
he insisted on her joining him in a bowl of 
punch. Both stories are probably true. 
The novel which was thus ushered into 
the world was the Vicar of Wakefield. 

But, before the Vicar of Wakefield ap- 
peared in print, came the great crisis of 
Goldsmith's literary life. In Christmas 
week, 1764, he published a poem entitled 
the Traveller. It was the first work [380 
to which he had put his name; and it at 
once raised him to the rank of a legitimate 
English classic. The opinion of the most 



MACAU LAY 



679 



skilful critics was, that nothing finer had 
appeared in verse since the fourth book 
of the Dunciad. In one respect the Trav- 
eller differs from all Goldsmith's other 
writings. In general his designs were 
bad, and his execution good. In the 
Traveller, the execution, though de- [390 
serving of much praise, is far inferior to 
the design. No philosophical poem, 
ancient or modern, has a plan so noble, 
and at the same time so simple. An 
English wanderer, seated on a crag among 
the Alps, near the point where three great 
countries meet, looks down on the bound- 
less prospect, reviews his long pilgrimage, 
recalls the varieties of scenery, of climate, 
of government, of religion, of national [400 
character, which he has observed, and 
comes to the conclusion, just or unjust, 
that our happiness depends little on 
political institutions, and much on the 
temper and regulation of our own minds. 
While the fourth edition of the Traveller 
was on the counters of the booksellers, 
the Vicar of Wakefield appeared, and 
rapidly obtained a popularity which has 
lasted down to our own time, and [410 
which is likely to last as long as our 
language. The fable is indeed one of 
the worst that ever was constructed. It 
wants, not merely that probability which 
ought to be found in a tale of common 
English life, but that consistency which 
ought to be found even in the wildest 
fiction about witches, giants, and fairies. 
But the earlier chapters have all the 
sweetness of pastoral poetry, together [420 
with all the vivacity of comedy. Moses 
and his spectacles, the vicar and his 
monogamy, the sharper and his cosmog- 
ony, the squire proving from Aristotle 
that relatives are related, Olivia preparing 
herself for the arduous task of converting 
a rakish lover by studying the controversy 
between Robinson Crusoe and Friday, 
the great ladies with their scandal about 
Sir Tomkyn's amours and Dr. Bur- [430 
dock's verses, and Mr. Burchell with 
his "Fudge," have caused as much harm- 
less mirth as has ever been caused by 
matter packed into so small a number of 
pages. The latter part of the tale is un- 
worthy of the beginning, ks we approach 
the catastrophe, the absurdities lie thicker 



and thicker; and the gleams of pleasantry 
become rarer and rarer. 

The success which had attended [440 
Goldsmith as a novelist emboldened him 
to try his fortune as a dramatist. He 
wrote the Goodnatured Man, a piece which 
had a worse fate than it deserved. Gar- 
rick refused to produce it at Drury Lane. 
It was acted at Covent Garden in 1768, 
but was coldly received. The author, 
however, cleared by his benefit nights, 
and by the sale of the copyright, no less 
than £500, five times as much as he [450 
had made by the Traveller and the Vicar 
of Wakefield together. The plot of the 
Goodnatured Man is, like almost all Gold- 
smith's plots, very ill constructed. But 
some passages are exquisitely ludicrous; 
much more ludicrous, indeed, than suited 
the taste of the town at that time. A 
canting, mawkish play, entitled False 
Delicacy, had just had an immense run. 
Sentimentality was all the mode. [460 
During some years, more tears were shed 
at comedies than at tragedies; and a 
pleasantry which moved the audience to 
anything more than a grave smile was 
reprobated as low. It is not strange, 
therefore, that the very best scene in the 
Goodnatured Man, that in which Miss 
Richland finds her lover attended by the 
bailiff and the bailiff's follower in full 
court dresses, should have been merci- [470 
lessly hissed, and should have been 
omitted after the first night. 

In 1770 appeared the Deserted Village. 
In mere diction and versification this 
celebrated poem is fully equal, perhaps 
superior, to the Traveller, and it is gen- 
erally preferred to the Traveller by that 
large class of readers who think, with 
Bayes in the Rehearsal, that the only use 
of a plan is to bring in fine things. [480 
More discerning judges, however, while 
they admire the beauty of the details, 
are shocked by one unpardonable fault 
which pervades the whole. The fault 
we mean is not that theory about wealth 
and luxury which has so often been cen- 
sured by political economists. The theory 
is indeed false; but the poem, considered 
merely as a poem, is not necessarily the 
worse on that account. The finest [490 
poem in the Latin language, indeed the 



68o 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



finest didactic poem in any language, was 
written in defence of the silliest and 
meanest of all systems of natural and 
moral philosophy. A poet may easily be 
pardoned for reasoning ill; but he cannot 
be pardoned for describing ill, for ob- 
serving the world in which he lives so 
carelessly that his portraits bear no 
resemblance to the originals, for ex- [500 
hibiting as copies from real life monstrous 
combinations of things which never were 
and never could be found together. What 
would be thought of a painter who should 
mix August and January in one landscape, 
who should introduce a frozen river into a 
harvest scene? Would it be a suflacient 
defence of such a picture to say that every 
part was exquisitely colored, that the 
green hedges, the apple-trees loaded [510 
with fruit, the wagons reeUng under the 
yellow sheaves, and the sunburned reapers 
wiping their foreheads, were very fine, 
and that the ice and the boys sliding 
were also very fine? To such a picture 
the Deserted Village bears a great resem- 
blance. It is made up of incongruous 
parts. The village in its happy days is a 
true English village. The village in its 
decay is an Irish village. The felicity [520 
and the misery which Goldsmith has 
brought close together belong to two 
different countries, and to two different 
stages in the progress of society. He had 
assuredly never seen in his native island 
such a rural paradise, such a seat of plenty, 
content, and tranquillity, as his "Au- 
burn." He had assuredly never seen in 
England all the inhabitants of such a 
paradise turned out of their homes [530 
in one day and forced to emigrate in a 
body to America. The hamlet he had 
probably seen in Kent; the ejectment he 
had probably seen in Munster; but, by 
joining the two, he has produced some- 
thing which never was and never will be 
seen in any part of the world. 

In 1773 Goldsmith tried his chance at 
Covent Garden with a second play, She 
Stoops to Conquer. The manager was [540 
not without great difficulty induced to 
bring this piece out. The sentimental 
comedy still reigned; and Goldsmith's 
comedies were not sentimental. The Good- 
natured Man had been too funny to suc- 



ceed; yet the mirth of the Goodnatured 
Man was sober when compared with the 
rich drollery of She Stoops to Conquer, 
which is, in truth, an incomparable farce 
in five acts. On this occasion, how- [550 
ever, genius triumphed. Pit, boxes, and 
galleries were in a constant roar of 
laughter. If any bigoted admirer of Kelly 
and Cumberland ventured to hiss or groan, 
he was speedily silenced by a general cry 
of "Turn him out," or "Throw him 
over." Two generations have since con- 
firmed the verdict which was pronoimced 
on that night. 

While Goldsmith was writing the [560 
Deserted Village and She Stoops to Conquer, 
he was employed in works of a very dif- 
ferent kind, works from which he derived 
little reputation but much profit. He 
compiled for the use of schools a History 
of Rome, by which he made £300; a 
History of England, by which he made 
£600; a History of Greece, for which he 
received £250; a Natural History, for 
! which the booksellers covenanted to [57c 
pay him 800 guineas. These works he 
produced without any elaborate research, 
by merely selecting, abridging, and trans- 
lating into his own clear, pure, and flowing 
language what he found in books well 
known to the world, but too bulky or too 
dry for boys and girls. He committed 
some strange blunders; for he knew noth- 
ing with accuracy. Thus in his History 
of England he tells us that Naseby is [580 
in Yorkshire; nor did he correct this 
mistake when the book was reprinted. 
He was very nearly hoaxed into putting 
into the History of Greece an account of a 
battle between Alexander the Great and 
Montezuma. In his Animated Nature 
he relates, with faith and with perfect 
gravity, all the most absurd lies which 
he could find in books of travels about 
gigantic Patagonians, monkeys that [590 
preach sermons, nightingales that repeat 
long conversations. "If he can tell a 
horse from a cow," said Johnson, "that 
is the extent of his knowledge of zoology." 
How little Goldsmith was qualified to 
write about the physical sciences is suf- 
ficiently proved by two anecdotes. He 
on one occasion denied that the sun is 
longer in the northern than in the southern 



MACAULAY 



68i 



signs. It was in vain to cite the au- [600 
thority of Maupertuis. "Maupertuis!" 
he cried; "I understand those matters 
better than Maupertuis." On another 
occasion he, in defiance of the evidence of 
his own senses, maintained obstinately, 
and even angrily, that he chewed his 
dinner by moving his upper jaw. 

Yet, ignorant as Goldsmith was, few 
writers have done more to make the first 
steps in the laborious road to knowl- [610 
edge easy and pleasant. His compilations 
are widely distinguished from the com- 
pilations of ordinary bookmakers. He 
was a great, perhaps an unequalled, 
master of the arts of selection and 
condensation. In these respects his his- 
tories of Rome and of England, and still 
more his own abridgments of these his- 
tories, well deserve to be studied. In 
general nothing is less attractive than [620 
an epitome; but the epitomes of Gold- 
smith, even when most concise, are always 
amusing; and to read them is considered 
by intelUgent children, not as a task, but 
as a pleasure. 

Goldsmith might now be considered as 
a prosperous man. He had the means of 
living in comfort, and even in what to 
one who had so often slept in barns and 
on bulks must have been luxury. His [630 
fame was great and was constantly rising. 
He lived in what was intellectually far 
the best society of the kingdom, in a 
society in which no talent or accomplish- 
ment was wanting, and in which the art 
of conversation was cultivated with splen- 
did success. There probably were never 
four talkers more admirable in four dif- 
ferent ways than Johnson, Burke, Beau- 
clerk, and Garrick; and Goldsmith was [640 
on terms of intimacy with all the four. 
He aspired to share in their colloquial 
renown; but never was ambition more 
unfortunate. It may seem strange that 
a man who wrote with so much per- 
spicuity, vivacity, and grace should have 
been, whenever he took a part in con- 
versation, an empty, noisy, blundering 
rattle. But on this point the evidence 
is overwhelming. So extraordinary [650 
was the contrast between Goldsmith's 
published works and the silly things 
which he said, that Horace Walpole de- 



scribed him as an inspired idiot. "Noll," 
said Garrick, "wrote like an angel, and 
talked like poor Poll." Chamier declared 
that it was a hard exercise of faith to 
believe that so foolish a chatterer could 
have really written the Traveller. Even 
Boswell could say, with contemptu- [660 
ous compassion, that he liked very well 
to hear honest Goldsmith run on. "Yes, 
sir," said Johnson; "but he should not 
like to hear himself." Minds differ as 
rivers differ. There are transparent and 
sparkling rivers from which it is delightful 
to drink as they flow; to such rivers the 
minds of such men as Burke and Johnson 
may be compared. But there are rivers 
of which the water when first drawn [670 
is turbid and noisome, but becomes 
pellucid as crystal, and delicious to the 
taste, if it be suffered to stand till it has 
deposited a sediment; and such a river 
is a type of the mind of Goldsmith. His 
first thoughts on every subject were con- 
fused even to absurdity; but they re- 
quired only a little time to work them- 
selves clear. When he wrote they had 
that time; and therefore his readers [680 
pronounced him a man of genius; but 
when he talked he talked nonsense, and 
made himself the laughing-stock of his 
hearers. He was painfully sensible of 
his inferiority in conversation; he felt 
every failure keenly; yet he had not 
sufficient judgment and self-command to 
hold his tongue. His animal spirits and 
vanity were always impelling him to try 
to do the one thing which he could not [690 
do. After every attempt he felt he had 
exposed himself, and writhed with shame 
and vexation; yet the next moment he 
began again. 

His associates seem to have regarded 
him with kindness, which, in spite of 
their admiration of his writings, was not 
unmixed with contempt. In truth, there 
was in his character much to love, but 
very little to respect. His heart was [700 
soft, even to weakness: he was so gener- 
ous that he quite forgot to be just; he 
forgave injuries so readily that he might 
be said to invite them: and was so liberal 
to beggars that he had nothing left for 
his tailor and his butcher. He was vain, 
sensual, frivolous, profuse, improvident. 



682 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



One vice of a darker shade was imputed 
to him, envy. But there is not the least 
reason to believe that this bad pas- [710 
sion, though it sometimes made him 
wince and utter fretful exclamations, 
ever impelled him to injure by wicked 
arts the reputation of any of his rivals. 
The truth probably is, that he was not 
more envious, but merely less prudent 
than his neighbors. His heart was on his 
lips. All those small jealousies, which 
are but too common among men of letters, 
but which a man of letters who is [720 
also a man of the world does his best 
to conceal. Goldsmith avowed with the 
simplicity of a child. When he was envi- 
ous, instead of affecting indifference, in- 
stead of damning with faint praise, in- 
stead of doing injuries slily and in the 
dark, he told everybody that he was 
envious. "Do not, pray, do not talk of 
Johnson in such terms," he said to Bos- 
well; "you harrow up my very soul." [730 
George Steevens and Cumberland were 
men far too cunning to say such a thing. 
They would have echoed the praises of 
the man they envied, and then have sent 
to the newspapers anonymous libels upon 
him. Both what was good and what 
was bad in Goldsmith's character was to 
his associates a perfect security that he 
would never commit such villainy. He 
was neither ill-natured enough, nor [740 
long-headed enough to be guilty of any 
malicious act which required contrivance 
and disguise. 

Goldsmith has sometimes been repre- 
sented as a man of genius, cruelly treated 
by the world, and doomed to struggle 
with difficulties which at last broke his 
heart. But no representation can be 
more remote from the truth. He did, 
indeed, go through much sharp [750 
misery before he had done anything con- 
siderable in literature. But, after his 
name had appeared on the title-page of 
the Traveller, he had none to blame but 
himself for his distresses. His average 
income during the last seven years of his 
life certainly exceeded £400 a year; and 
£400 a year ranked, among the incomes 
of that day, at least as high as £Soo a 
year would rank at present. A single [760 
man living in the Temple with £400 a 



year might then be called opulent. Not 
one in ten of the young gentlemen of 
good families who were studying the law 
there had so much. But all the wealth 
which Lord Clive had brought from Ben- 
gal, and Sir Lawrence Dundas from 
Germany, joined together, would not 
have sufficed for Goldsmith. He spent 
twice as much as he had. He wore [770 
fine clothes, gave dinners of several 
courses, paid court to venal beauties. 
He had also, it should be remembered, 
to the honor of his heart, though not of 
his head, a guinea, or five, or ten, accord- 
ing to the state of his purse, ready for 
any tale of distress, true or false. But it 
was not in dress or feasting, in promiscu- 
ous amours or promiscuous charities, that 
his chief expense lay. He had been [780 
from boyhood a gambler, and at once the 
most sanguine and the most unskilful of 
gamblers. For a time he put off the day 
of inevitable ruin by temporary expedi- 
ents. He obtained advances from book- 
sellers, by promising to execute works 
which he never began. But at length 
this source of supply failed. He owed 
more than £2,000; and he saw no hope of 
extrication from his embarrassments. [790 
His spirits and health gave way. He was 
attacked by a nervous fever, which he 
thought himself competent to treat. It 
would have been happy for him if his 
medical skill had been appreciated as 
justly by himself as by others. Notwith- 
standing the degree which he pretended 
to have received at Padua, he could pro- 
cure no patients. "I do not practice," 
he once said; "I make it a rule to pre- [800 
scribe only for my friends." "Pray, dear 
Doctor," said Beauclerk, "alter your 
rule, and prescribe only for your enemies." 
Goldsmith now, in spite of this excellent 
advice, prescribed for himself. The remedy 
aggravated the malady. The sick man 
was induced to call in real physicians; 
and they at one time imagined that" they 
had cured the disease. Still his weakness 
and restlessness continued. He could [810 
get no sleep, he could take no food. "You 
are worse," said one of his medical at- 
tendants, "than you should be from the 
degree of fever which you have. Is your 
mind at ease?" "No, it is not," were 



MAC A ULA Y 



683 



the last recorded words of Oliver Gold- 
smith. He died on the 3rd of April, 1774, 
in his forty-sixth year. He was laid in 
the churchyard of the Temple; but the 
spot was not marked by any inscrip- [820 
tion, and is now forgotten. The coffin 
was followed by Burke and Reynolds. 
Both these great men were sincere mourn- 
ers. Burke, when he heard of Goldsmith's 
death, had burst into a flood of tears. 
Reynolds had been so much moved by 
the news that he had flung aside his brush 
and palette for the day. 

A short time after Goldsmith's death, 
a little poem appeared, which will, as [830 
long as our language lasts, associate the 
names of his two illustrious friends with 
his own. It has already been mentioned 
that he sometimes felt keenly the sarcasm 
which his wild blundering talk brought 
upon him. He was, not long before his 
last illness, provoked into retaliating. 
He wisely betook himself to his pen; and 
at that weapon he proved himself a match 
for all his assailants together. Within [840 
a small compass he drew with a singularly 
easy and vigorous pencil the characters 
of nine or ten of his intimate associates. 
Though this Httle work did not receive 
his last touches, it must always be re- 
garded as a masterpiece. It is impossible, 
however, not to wish that four or five 
likenesses which have no interest for pos- 
terity were wanting to that noble gallery, 
and that their places were supplied [850 
by sketches of Johnson and Gibbon, as 
happy and vivid as the sketches of Burke 
and Garrick. 

Some of Goldsmith's friends and ad- 
mirers honored him with a cenotaph in 
Westminster Abbey. Nollekens was the 
sculptor; and Johnson wrote the inscrip- 
tion. It is much to be lamented that 
Johnson did not leave to posterity a more 
durable and a more valuable memorial [860 
of his friend. A life of Goldsmith would 
have been an inestimable addition to the 
Lives of the Poets. No man appreciated 
Goldsmith's writings more justly than 
Johnson: no man was better acquainted 
with Goldsmith's character and habits: 
and no man was more competent to de- 
lineate with truth and spirit the pecul- 
iarities of a mind in which great powers 



were found in company with great [870 
weaknesses. But the list of poets to whose 
works Johnson was requested by the book- 
sellers to furnish prefaces ended with 
Lyttleton, who died in 1773. The line 
seems to have been drawn expressly for 
the purpose of excluding the person 
whose portrait would have most fitly 
closed the series. Goldsmith, however, 
has been fortunate in his biographers. 
Within a few years his life has been [880 
written by Mr. Prior, by Mr. Washington 
Irving, and by Mr. Forster. The dili- 
gence of Mr. Prior deserves great praise; 
the style lof Mr. Washington Irving is 
always pleasing; but the highest place 
must, in justice, be assigned to the emi- 
nently interesting work of Mr. Forster. 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (181&-1861) 
QUA CURSUM VENTUS 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried; 4 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side: 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those, whom year by year unchanged. 

Brief absence joined anew to feel, n 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 15 
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! 

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain. 
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too. 

Through winds and tides one compass 
guides — 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 20 

But O blithe breeze; and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last. 



684 



TEE VICTORIAN AGE 



One port, methought, alike they sought, 25 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas! 
At last, at last, unite them there! 



WHERE LIES THE LAND 

Where lies the land to which the ship 

would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? 

Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth 
face, 5 

Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to 
pace; 

Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below 

The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights when wild northwesters 

rave, 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and 

wave! 10 

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it 

past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship 

would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? 

Away, 15 

Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 



ALL IS WELL 

Whate'er you dream, with doubt possessed. 

Keep, keep it snug within your breast. 

And lay you down and take your rest; 

Forget in sleep the doubt and pain, 

And when you wake, to work again. 5 

The wind it blows, the vessel goes, 

And where and whither, no one knows. 

'Twill all be well: no need of care; 
Though how it will, and when, and 

where. 
We cannot see, and can't declare. 10 



In spite of dreams, in spite of thought, 
'Tis not in vain, and not for nought. 
The wind it blows, the ship it goes. 
Though where and whither, no one knows. 



LIFE IS STRUGGLE 

To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain, 
And give oneself a world of pain; 
Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot, 
Imperious, supple — God knows what, 
For what's all one to have or not; 5 

O false, unwise, absurd, and vain! 
For 'tis not joy, it is not gain. 
It is not in itself a bliss, 
Only it is precisely this 
That keeps us all alive. 10 

To say we truly feel the pain, 
And quite are sinking with the strain; — 
Entirely, simply, undeceived, 
Believe, and say we ne'er believed 
The object, e'en were it achieved, 15 

A thing we e'er had cared to keep; 
With heart and soul to hold it cheap, 
And then to go and try it again; 
O false, unwise, absurd, and vain! 
O, 'tis not joy, and 'tis not bliss, 20 

Only it is precisely this 
That keeps us still alive. 



ITE DOMUM SATURN, VENIT 
HESPERUS 

The skies have sunk, and hid the upper 

snow 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie), 
The rainy clouds are filing fast below. 
And wet will be the path, and wet shall 

we. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Pahe. 5 

Ah dear, and where is he, a year agone, 
Who stepped beside and cheered us on 

and on? 
My sweetheart wanders far away from me, 
In foreign land or on a foreign sea. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie. 10 



C LOUGH 



685 



The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky 

(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
La Palie), 

And through the vale the rains go sweep- 
ing by; 

Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be? 

Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
La Palie. 15 

Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel 

they 
O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that 

stray 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie). 
And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind 
The pleasant huts and herds he left be- 
hind? 20 
And doth he sometimes in his slumbering 

see 
The feeding kine, and doth he think of 

me. 
My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it 

be? 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie. 

The thunder bellows far from snow to 
snow 25 

(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
La Palie), 

And loud and louder roars the flood be- 
low. 

Heigho! but soon in shelter shall we be: 

Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
La Palie. 

Or shall he find before his term be sped 30 
Some comelier maid that he shall wish to 

wed? 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie.) 
For weary is work, and weary day by day 
To have your comfort miles on miles 

away. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie. 35 

Or may it be that I shall find my mate, 
And he returning see himself too late? 
For work we must, and what we see, we 

see. 
And God he knows, and what must be, 

must be, 



When sweethearts wander far away from 
me. 40 

Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 
PaUe. 

The sky behind is brightening up anew 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 

La Palie), 
The rain is ending, and our journey too: 
Heigho! aha! for here at home are we: — 45 
In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie. 



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say not the struggle nought availeth, 
The labor and the wounds are vain. 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 5 
It may be, in yon smoke concealed. 

Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 
And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
Seem here no painful inch to gain, 10 

Far back, through creeks and inlets mak- 
ing, 
Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only. 

When daylight comes, comes in the 
light, 14 

In front, the sun cHmbs slow, how slowly, 
But westward, look, the land is bright. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888) 

SHAKESPEARE 

Others abide our question. Thou art free. 
We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art 

still. 
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest 

hill 
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty. 
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 5 
Making the heaven of heavens his dwell- 
ing-place. 
Spares but the cloudy border of his base 
To the foiled searching of mortality; 



686 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And thou, who didst the stars and sun- 
beams know, 

Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, 
self-secure, lo 

Didst tread on earth unguessed at. — 
Better so! 

All pains the immortal spirit must endure, 

All weakness which impairs, all griefs 
which bow. 

Find their sole speech in that victorious 
brow. 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 

Come, dear children, let us away, 
Down and away below! 
Now my brothers call from the bay, 
Now the great winds shoreward blow, 
Now the salt tides seaward flow, 5 

Now the wild white horses play. 
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray; 
Children dear, let us away! 
This way, this way! 

Call her once before you go — 10 

Call once yet! 

In a voice that she will know: 

"Margaret! Margaret!" 

Children's voices should be dear 

(Call once more!) to a mother's ear; 15 

Children's voices, wild with pain — 

Surely she will come again! 

Call her once and come away; 

This way, this way! 

"Mother dear, we cannot stay; 20 

The wild white horses foam and fret." 

Margaret! Margaret! 

Come, dear children, come away down; 
Call no more! 

One last look at the white- walled town, 25 
i\nd the little gray church on the windy 

shore; 
Then come down! 

She will not come though you call all day: 
Come away, come away! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 30 

We heard the sweet bells over the bay? 
In the caverns where we lay. 
Through the surf and through the swell. 
The far-off sound of a silver bell? 



Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 35 
Where the winds are all asleep; 
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam. 
Where the salt weed sways in the stream. 
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, 
Feed in the ooze of their pasture- 
ground; 40 
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 
Dry their mail and bask in the brine: 
Where great whales come sailing by. 
Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 
Round the world for ever and aye? 45 
When did music come this way? 
Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 
(Call yet once!) that she went away? 
Once she sate with you and me, 50 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the 

sea, 
And the youngest sate on her knee. 
She combed its bright hair, and she 

tended it well. 
When down swung the sound of a far-off 

bell. 
She sighed, she looked up through the 

clear green sea; 55 

She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk 

pray 
In the little gray church on the shore to- 
day. 
'Twill be Easter- time in the world, ah 

me! 
And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here 

with thee." 
I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the 

waves; 60 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the 

kind sea-caves!" 
She smiled, she went up through the surf 

in the bay. 
Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, were we long alone? 

"The sea grows stormy, the little ones 
moan; 65 

Long prayers," I said, "in the world they 
say; 

Come!" I said; and we rose through the 
surf in the bay. 

We went up the beach, by the sandy 
down 

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white- 
walled town; 



ARNOLD 



687 



Through the narrow paved streets, where 

all was still, 70 

To the little gray church on the windy 

hill. 
From the church came a murmur of folk 

at their prayers, 
But we stood without in the cold blowing 

airs. 
We climbed on the graves, on the stones 

worn with rains. 
And we gazed up the aisle through the 

small leaded panes. 75 

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 
"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are 

here! 
Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; 
The sea grows stormy, the little ones 

moan." 
But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80 
For her eyes were sealed to the holy 

book! 
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the 

door. 
Come away, children, call no more! 
Come away, come down, call no more! 

Down, down, down! 85 

Down to the depths of the sea! 
She sits at her wheel in the humming 

town. 
Singing most joyfully. 
Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, 
For the humming street, and the child 

with its toy! 90 

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy 

well; 
For the wheel where I spun. 
And the blessed light of the sun!" 
And so she sings her fill, 
Singing most joyfully, 95 

Till the spindle drops from her hand. 
And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
She steals to the window, and looks at the 

sand, 
And over the sand at the sea; 
And her eyes are set in a stare; 100 

And anon there breaks a sigh. 
And anon there drops a tear. 
From a :-orrow-clouded eye. 
And a heart sorrow-laden; 
A long, long sigh 105 

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mer- 

maiden 
And the gleam of her golden hair. 



"5 



Come away, away, children; 
Come, children, come down! 
The hoarse wind blows colder; 
Lights shine in the town. 
She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door; 
She will hear the winds howling, 
Will hear the waves roar. 
We shall see, while above us 
The waves roar and whirl, 
A ceiling of amber, 
A pavement of pearl. 
Singing: "Here came a mortal, 
But faithless was she! 
And alone dwell for ever 
The kings of the sea." 



But, children, at midnight, 

When soft the winds blow, 125 

When clear falls the moonlight, 

When spring- tides are low; 

When sweet airs come seaward 

From heaths starred with broom, 

And high rocks throw mildly 130 

On the blanched sands a gloom; 

Up the still, glistening beaches. 

Up the creeks we will hie. 

Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 135 

We will gaze, from the sand-hills. 

At the white, sleeping town; 

At the church on the hill-side: 

And then come back down. 

Singing: "There dwells a loved one, 140 

But cruel is she! 

She left lonely for ever 

The kings of the sea." 



PHILOMELA 

Hark! ah, the nightingale — 

The tawny-throated! 

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a 
burst! 

What triumph! hark! — what pain! 

O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 5 

Still, after many years, in distant 
lands. 

Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain 

That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old- 
world pain — 
Say, will it never heal? 



688 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And can this fragrant lawn 
With its cool trees, and night, 
And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
And moonshine, and the dew, 
To thy racked heart and brain 
Afford no balm? 



IS 



Dost thou to-night behold 
Here, through the moonlight on this 

English grass, 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian 
wild? 
Dost thou again peruse 
With hot cheeks and seared eyes 20 

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's 
shame? 
Dost thou once more assay 
Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 
Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
Once more, and once more seem to make 
resound 25 

With love and hate, triumph and agony. 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian 
vale? 
Listen, Eugenia — 
How thick the bursts come crowding 
through the leaves! 
Again — thou hearest? 30 

Eternal passion! 
Eternal pain! 



REQUIESCAT 

Strew on her roses, roses. 
And never a spray of yew! 

In quiet she reposes; 
Ah, would that I did too! 

Her mirth the world required; s 

She bathed it in smiles of glee. 

But her heart was tired, tired. 
And now they let her be. 

Her Hfe was turning, turning. 

In mazes of heat and sound; 10 

But for peace her soul was yearning. 
And now peace laps her round. 

Her cabined, ample spirit. 

It fluttered and failed for breath; 

To-night it doth inherit 15 

The vasty hall of death. 



THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 

Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the 
hill; 
Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled^ 
cotes; 
No longer leave thy wistful flock un- 
fed. 
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their 
throats, 
Nor the cropped herbage shoot 
another head. 5 

But when the fields are still. 
And the tired men and dogs all gone to 
rest. 
And only the white sheep are some- 
times seen 
Cross and recross the strips of 
moonblanched green. 
Come, shepherd, and again begin the 
quest! 10 

Here, where the reaper was at work of 
late— 
In this high field's dark corner, where he 
leaves 
His coat, his basket, and his 
earthen cruse. 
And in the sun all morning binds the 
sheaves. 
Then here, at noon, comes back his 
stores to use — 15 

Here will I sit and wait. 
While to my ear from uplands far 
away 
The bleating of the folded flocks is 

borne, 
With distant cries of reapers in the 
corn — 
All the live murmur of a summer's 
day. 20 

Screened is this nook o'er the high, half- 
reaped field, 
And here till sun-down, shepherd, will 
I be. 
Through the thick corn the scarlet 
poppies peep, 
And round green roots and yellowing 
stalks I see 
Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils 
creep; 25 

And air-swept lindens yield 

1 made of interwoven twigs or branches. 



ARNOLD 



689 



Their scent, and rustle down their per- 
fumed showers 
Of bloom on the bent grass where I 

am laid, 
And bower me from the August sun 
with shade; 
And the eye travels down to Oxford's 
towers. 30 

And near me on the grass hes Glanvil's 
book — 
Come, let me read the oft-read tale 
again ! 
The story of that Oxford scholar poor. 
Of pregnant parts and quick inventive 
brain. 
Who, tired of knocking at prefer- 
ment's door, 35 
One summer-morn forsook 
His friends, and went to learn the gipsy 
lore, 
And roamed the world with that wild 

brotherhood. 
And came, as most men deemed, to 
little good, 
But came to Oxford and his friends no 
more. 40 

But once, years after, in the country- 
lanes, 
Two scholars, whom at college erst he 
knew, 
Met him, and of his way of life in- 
quired; 
Whereat he answered, that the gipsy- 
crew. 
His mates, had arts to rule as they de- 
sired 45 
The workings of men's brains. 
And they can bind them to what 
thoughts they will. 
"And I," he said, "the secret of their 

art, 
When fully learned, will to the world 
impart; 
But it needs heaven-sent moments for 
this skill." 50 

This said, he left them, and returned no 
more. — 
But rumors hung about the country- 
side, 
That the lost Scholar long was seen 
to stray, 



Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and 
tongue-tied. 
In hat of antif][ue shape, and cloak of 
gray, _ _ 55 

The same the gipsies wore. 
Shepherds had met him on the Hurst 
in spring; 
At some lone alehouse in the Berk- 
shire moors, 
On the warm ingle-bench,^ the smock- 
frock ed boors 
Had found him seated at their enter- 
ing. 60 

But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he 
would fly. 
And I myself seem half to know thy 
looks. 
And put the shepherds, wanderer, on 
thy trace; 
And boys who in lone wheat fields scare 
the rooks 
I ask if thou hast passed their quiet 
place; 65 

Or in my boat I lie 
Moored to the cool bank in the summer 
heats, 
'Mid wide grass meadows which the 

sunshine fills, 
And watch the warm, green-muffled 
Cumner hills. 
And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy 
retreats. 70 

For most, I know, thou lov'st retired 
ground ! 
Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe. 
Returning home on summer-nights, 
have met 
Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab- 
lock-hithe. 
Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers 
wet, 75 

As the punt's^ rope chops round: 
And leaning backward in a pensive 
dream. 
And fostering in thy lap a heap of 

flowers 
Plucked in shy fields and distant 
Wychwood bowers, 
And thine eyes resting on the moonlit 
stream. 80 



1 fireside bench. 



2 small, flat-bottomed boat. 



6go 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And then they land, and thou art seen no 
more. 
Maidens, who from the distant hamlets 
come 
To dance around the Fyfield elm in 
May, 
Oft through the darkening fields have 
seen thee roam, 
Or cross a stile into the public 
way. 8s 

Oft thou hast given them store 
Of flowers — the frail-leafed, white anem- 
one. 
Dark bluelDells drenched with dews of 

summer eves, 
And purple orchises with spotted 
leaves — 
But none hath words she can report of 
thee. 90 

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay- 
time's here 
In June, and many a scythe in sunshine 
flames. 
Men who through those wide fields of 
breezy grass 
Where black-winged swallows haunt 
the glittering Thames, 
To bathe in the abandoned lasher 
pass, 95 

Have often passed thee near. 
Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown; 
Marked thine outlandish garb, thy 

figure spare, 
Thy dark vague eyes, and soft ab- 
stracted air — 
But, when they came from bathing, thou 
wast gone. 100 

At some lone homestead in the Cumner 
hills. 
Where at her open door the housewife 
darns. 
Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a 
gate 
To watch the threshers in the mossy 
barns. 
Children, who early range these 
slopes and late 105 

For cresses from the rills, 
Have known thee eying, all an April- 
day, 
The springing pastures and the feed- 
ing kine; 



And marked thee, when the stars 
come out and shine, 
Through the long dewy grass move slow 
away. no 

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood — 
Where most the gipsies by the turf- 
edged way 
Pitch their smoked tents, and every 
bush you see 
With scarlet patches tagged and shreds 
of gray, 
Above the forest-ground called Thes- 
saly — 115 

The blackbird, picking food. 
Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears 
at all; 
So often has he known thee past him 

stray, 
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a with- 
ered spray, 
And waiting for the spark from heaven 
to fall. 120 

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill 
Where home through flooded fields 
foot-travelers go, 
Have I not passed thee on the wooden 
bridge 
Wrapped in thy cloak and battling with 
the snow. 
Thy face toward Hinksey and its 
wintry ridge? 125 

And thou hast climbed the hill, 
And gained the white brow of the Cum- 
ner range; 
Turned once to watch, while thick 

the snowflakes fall. 
The line of festal light in Christ- 
Church hall — 
Then sought thy straw in some se- 
questered grange. 130 

But what — I dream! Two hundred years 
are flown 
Since first thy story ran through Oxford 
halls. 
And the grave Glanvil did the tale 
inscribe 
That thou wert wandered from the 
studious walls 
To learn strange arts, and join a 
gipsy-tribe; 135 

And thou from earth art gone 



ARNOLD 



691 



Long since, and in some quiet church- 
yard laid — 
Some country-nook, where o'er thy 

unknown grave 
Tall grasses and white iBowering 
nettles wave. 
Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's 
shade. 140 

— No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of 
hours! 
For what wears out the life of mortal 
men? 
'Tis that from change to change 
their being rolls; 
'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again. 
Exhaust the energy of strongest 
souls, 145 

And numb the elastic powers 
Till having used our nerves with bliss 
and teen,^ 
And tired upon a thousand schemes 

our wit. 
To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
Our worn-out life, and are — what we 
have been. 150 

Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou 
perish, so? 
Thou had'st one aim, one business, one 
desire; 
Else wert thou long since numbered 
with the dead, 
Else hadst thou spent, like other men, 
thy fire. 
The generations of thy peers are 
fled, 155 

And we ourselves shall go; 
But thou possessest an immortal lot, 
And we imagine thee exempt from 

age, 
And living as thou liv'st on Glan- 
vil's page. 
Because thou hadst — what we, alas! 
have not. 160 

For early didst thou leave the world, with 
powers 
Fresh, undiverted to the world without, 
Firm to their mark, not spent on 
other things; 
Free from the sick fatigue, the languid 
doubt, 

' sorrow. 



Which much to have tried, in much 

been baffled, brings. 165 

life unlike to ours! 

Who fluctuate idly without term or 

scope. 

Of whom each strives, nor knows for 

what he strives. 
And each half lives a hundred differ- 
ent lives; 
Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, 
in hope. 170 

Thou waitest for the spark from heaven: 
and we. 
Light half-believers of our casual creeds. 
Who never deeply felt, nor clearly 
willed. 
Whose insight never has borne fruit in 
deeds. 
Whose vague resolves never have 
been fulfilled; 175 

For whom each year we see 
Breeds new beginnings, disappoint- 
ments new; 
Who hesitate and falter life away, 
And lose to-morrow the ground won 
to-day — 
Ah, do not we, wanderer, await it too? 

Yes, we await it, but it still delays, 181 
And then we suffer; and amongst us one, 
Who most has suffered, takes deject- 
edly 
His seat upon the intellectual throne; 
And all his store of sad experience he 
Lays bare of wretched days; 186 
Tells us his misery's birth and growth 
and signs. 
And how the dying spark of hope was 

fed. 
And how the breast was soothed, and 
how the head. 
And all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 

This for our wisest! and we others pine. 
And wish the long unhappy dream would 
end. 
And waive all claim to bliss, and try 
to bear; 
With close-lipped patience for our only 
friend, 
Sad patience, too near neighbor to 
despair — 195 

But none has hope like thine. 



692 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Thou through the fields and through 
the woods dost stray, 
Roaming the country-side, a truant 

boy, 
Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, 
And every doubt long blown by time 
away. 200 

O born in days when wits were fresh and 
clear. 
And life ran gaily as the sparkling 
Thames ; 
Before this strange disease of modern 
life, 
With its sick hurry, its divided aims. 
Its heads o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, 
was rife — 205 

Fly hence, our contact fear! 
Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering 
wood! 
Averse, as Dido did with gesture 

stern 
From her false friend's approach in 
Hades turn. 
Wave us away, and keep thy solitude. 210 

Still nursing the unconquerable hope. 
Still clutching the inviolable shade, 
With a free, onward impulse brushing 
through, 
By night, the silvered branches of the 
glade — 
Far on the forest-skirts, where none 
pursue, 215 

On some mild pastoral slope 
Emerge, and resting on the moonlit 
pales, 
Freshen thy flowers as in former 

years 
With dew, or listen with enchanted 
ears. 
From the dark dingles, to the night- 
ingales. 220 

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! 
For strong the infection of our mental 
strife. 
Which, though it gives no bliss, yet 
spoils for rest; 
And we should win thee from thy own 
fair life, 
Like us distracted, and like us un- 
blest. 225 

Soon, soon thy cheer would die, 



Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed 
thy powers. 
And thy clear aims be cross and shift- 
ing made; 
And then thy glad perennial youth 
would fade. 
Fade, and grow old at last, and die like 
ours. 230 

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and 

smiles ! 
— As some grave Tyrian trader, from the 
sea. 
Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealth- 

iiy, 

The fringes of a southward-facing 

brow 23 s 

Among the iEgean isles; 

And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, 

Freighted with amber grapes, and 

Chian wine, 
Green, bursting figs, and tunnies^ 
steeped in brine; 
And knew the intruders on his an- 
cient home, 240 

The young light-hearted masters of the 
waves — 
And snatched his rudder, and shook out 
more sail. 
And day and night held on indig- 
nantly 
O'er the blue Midland waters with the 

Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 245 
To where the Atlantic raves 
Outside the western straits; and un- 
bent sails 
There, where down cloudy cliffs, 

through sheets of foam. 
Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians 
come; 
And on the beach undid his corded 
bales. 250 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 

An Episode 

And the first gray of morning filled the 
east, 
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 
But all the Tartar camp along the stream 

1 a kind of fish. 



ARNOLD 



693 



Was hushed, and still the men were plunged 

in sleep; 
Sohrab alone, he slept not : all night long 5 
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 
But when the gray dawn stole into his 

tent, 
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his 

sword. 
And took his horseman's cloak, and left 

his tent, 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 10 
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's 

tent. 
Through the black Tartar tents he 

passed, which stood 
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat 

strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high 

Pamere : 1 5 

Through the black tents he passed, o'er 

that low strand, 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream's brink — the spot where 

first a boat. 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes 

the land. 
The men of former times had crowned 

the top 20 

With a clay fort; but that was fallen, and 

now 
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 
A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were 

spread. 
And Sohrab came there, and went in, 

and stood 
Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent, 25 
And found the old man sleeping on his 

bed 
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his 

arms. 
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the 

step 
Was dulled; for he slept light, an old man's 

sleep; 
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said: 
"Who art thou? for it is not yet clear 

dawn. 31 

Speak! is there news, or any night alarm? " 

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and 

said : — 
"Thou know est me, Peran-Wisa: it is I. 
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 35 
Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie 



Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son. 
In Samarcand, before the army marched; 
And I will tell thee what my heart de- 
sires. 41 
Thou knowest if, since from Ader-baijan 

first 
I came among the Tartars and bore arms, 
I have still served Afrasiab well, and 

shown. 
At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
This too thou know'st, that, while I still 

bear on 46 

The conquering Tartar ensigns through the 

world. 
And beat the Persians back on every field, 
I seek one man, one man, and one alone — 
Rustum, my father; who I hoped should 

greet, 50 

Should one day greet, upon some well- 
fought field 
His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
Come then, hear now, and grant me what 

I ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day: but I 55 
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian 

lords 
To meet me, man to man: if I prevail, 
Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall — 
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no 

kin. 
Dim is the rumor of a common fight, 60 
Where host meets host, and many names 

are sunk; 
But of a single combat fame speaks clear.'' 
He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the 

hand 
Of the young man in his, and sighed, and 

said : — 
"O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine! 
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar 

chiefs, 66 

And share the battle's common chance 

with us 
Who love thee, but must press forever 

first. 
In single fight incurring single risk. 
To find a father thou hast never seen? 70 
That were far best, my son, to stay with 

us 
Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is 

war, 



694 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's 

towns. 
But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 
To seek out Rustum — seek him not 

through fight: 75 

Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 
O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son! 
But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 
For now it is not as when I was young, 
When Rustum was in front of every fray; 
But now he keeps apart, and sits at home. 
In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. 82 
Whether that his own mighty strength 

at last 
Feels the abhorred approaches of old age; 
Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 
There go! — Thou wilt not? Yet my 

heart forebodes 86 

Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
Fain would I know thee safe and well, 

though lost 
To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in 

peace 
To seek thy father, not seek single fights 90 
In vain: — but who can keep the lion's 

cub 
From ravening, and who govern Rustum's 

son? 
Go, I will grant thee what thy heart 

desires." 
So said he, and dropped Sohrab's hand, 

and left 
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he 

lay; ... 95 

And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat 
He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet, 
And threw a white cloak round him, and 

he took 
In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword ; 
And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap. 
Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara- 

Kul; 1 01 

And raised the curtain of his tent, and 

called 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 
The sun by this had risen, and cleared 

the fog 
From the broad Oxus and the glittering 

sands. 105 

And from their tents the Tartar horsemen 

filed 
Into the open plain; so Haman bade — 
Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled 
The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 



From their black tents, long files of horse, 

they . streamed : no 

As when, some gray November morn, the 

files, 
In marching order spread, of long-necked 

cranes. 
Stream over Casbin, and the southern 

slopes 
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, 
Or some frore ^ Caspian reed-bed, south- 
ward bound 115 
For the warm Persian sea^board — so they 

streamed. 
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, 
First, with black sheep-skin caps and with 

long spears; 
Large men, large steeds; who from Bok- 
hara come 
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of 

mares. 120 

Next the more temperate Toorkmuns of 

south, 
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 
Aild those from Attruck and the Caspian 

sands ; 
Light men, and on light steeds, who only 

drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their 

wells. 125 

And then a swarm of wandering horse, 

who came 
From far, and a more doubtful service 

owned; 
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder 

hordes 130 

Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern 

waste, 
Kalmuks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes 

who stray 
Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirg- 

hizzes. 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere; 
These all filed out from camp into the 

plain. 135 

And on the other side the Persians 

formed : 
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they 

seemed, 
The Ilyats of Khorassan: and behind. 
The royal troops of Persia, horse and 

foot, 

1 frozen. 



ARNOLD 



695 



Marshalled battalions bright in burnished 

steel. 140 

But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 

Threading the Tartar squadrons to the 

front, 
And with his stafif kept back the foremost 

ranks. 
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, 

saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back. 
He took his spear, and to the front he 

came, 146 

And checked his ranks, and fixed them 

where they stood. 
And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and 

said: — 
"Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, 

hear! 150 

Let there be truce between the hosts to- 
day. 
But choose a champion from the Persian 

lords 
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to 

man." 
As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
When the dew glistens on the pearled 

ears, 155 

A shiver runs through the deep corn for 

joy- 
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa 

said, 
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons 

ran 
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they 

loved. 
But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 161 
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of 

milk snow; 
Crossing so high, that, as they mount, 

they pass 
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on 

the snow. 
Choked by the air, and scarce can they 

themselves 165 

Slake their parched throats with sugared 

mulberries — 
In single file they move, and stop their 

breath, 
For fear they should dislodge the o'er- 

hanging snows — 
So the pale Persians held their breath with 

fear. 



And to Ferood his brother chiefs came 

up 170 

To counsel: Gudurz and Zoarrah came, 
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
Second, and was the uncle of the King; 
These came and counselled, and then 

Gudurz said: — 
"Ferood, shame bids us take their 

challenge up. 175 

Yet champion have we none to match 

this youth. 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's 

heart. 
But Rustimi came last night; aloof he sits 
And sullen, and has pitched his tents 

apart. 
Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 180 
The Tartar challenge, and this young 

man's name. 
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
Stand forth the while, and take their 

challenge up." 
So spake he; and Ferood stood forth 

and cried: — 
"Old man, be it agreed as thou hast 

said! 185 

Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man." 

He spake; and Peran-Wisa turned, and 

strode 
Back through the opening squadrons to 

his tent. 
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz 

ran. 
And crossed the camp which lay behind, 

and reached, 190 

Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's 

tents. 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and gUttering 

Just pitched: the high pavilion in the 

midst 
Was Rustum's, and his men lay camped 

around. 
And Gudurz entered Rustvun's tent, and 

found 195 

Rustum; his morning meal was done, but 

still 
The table stood before him, charged with 

food; 
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of 

bread, 
And dark green melons; and there Rustum 

sate 
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 200 



696 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And played with it; but Gudurz came and 

stood 
Before him; and he looked, and saw him 

stand, 
And with a cry sprang up, and dropped the 

bird, 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and 

said : — 
''Welcome! these eyes could see no 

better sight. 205 

What news? but sit down first, and eat 

and drink." 
But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and 

said: — 
"Not now; a time will come to eat and 

drink. 
But not to-day; to-day has other needs. 
The armies are drawn out, and stand at 

gaze; 210 

For from the Tartars is a challenge 

brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight their champion — and thou 

knowest his name — 
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
Rustum, like thy might is this young 

man's! 215 

He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's 

heart; 
And he is young, and Iran's^ chiefs are old, 
Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee. 
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we 

lose!" 
He spoke: but Rustum answered with 

a smile: — ' 220 

"Go to! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I 
Am older: if the young are weak, the King 
Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai- 

Khosroo, 
Himself is young, and honors younger 

men, 
And lets the aged moulder to their 

graves. 225 

Rustum he loves no more, but loves the 

young — 
The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, 

not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's 

fame? 
For would that I myself had such a son, 
And not that one slight helpless girl I 

have — 230 

A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 

1 Persia's. 



And I to tarry with the snow-haired Zal, 
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex. 
And clip his borders short, and drive his 

herds, 
And he has none to guard his weak old 

age. 23 s 

There would I go, and hang my armor up, 
And with my great name fence that weak 

old man. 
And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's 

fame. 
And leave to death the hosts of thankless 

kings, 240 

And with these slaughterous hands draw 

sword no more." 
He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz 

made reply: — 
"What then, O Rustum, will men say to 

this, 
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and 

seeks 
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most 

he seeks, 245 

Hidest thy face? Take heed, lest men 

should say: 
' Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his 

fame, 
And shuns to peril it with younger men.' " 
And, greatly moved, then Rustum made 

reply: — 
"O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such 

words? 250 

Thou knowest better words than this to 

say. 
What is one more, one less, obscure or 

famed, 
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? 
Are not they mortal, am not I myself? 
But who for men of nought would do 

great deeds? 255 

Come, thou shall see how Rustum hoards 

his fame! 
But I will fight unknown, and in plain 

arms; 
Let not men say of Rustum, he was 

matched 
In single fight with any mortal man." 
He spoke, and frowned; and Gudurz 

turned, and ran 260 

Back quickly through the camp in fear 

and joy — 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum 

came. 



ARNOLD 



697 



But Rustum strode to his tent door, and 

called 
His followers in, and bade them bring his 

arms. 
And clad himself in steel: the arms he 

chose 265 

Were plain, and on his shield was no de- 
vice. 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 
And from the fluted spine atop, a plume 
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair 

plume. 
So armed, he issued forth; and Ruksh, 

his horse, 270 

Followed him like a faithful hound at 

heel — 
Ruksh, whose renowfi was noised through 

all the earth. 
The horse whom Rustum on a foray once 
Did in Bokhara by the river find, 
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him 

home, 27s 

And reared him; a bright bay, with lofty 

crest; 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered 

green 
Crusted with gold, and on the ground 

were worked 
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters 

know. 
So followed, Rustum left his tents, and 

crossed 280 

The camp, and to the Persian host ap- 
peared. 
And all the Persians knew him, and with 

shouts 
Hailed; but the Tartars knew not who he 

was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on 

shore, 285 

By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, 
Plunging all day into the blue waves, at 

night. 
Having made up his tale of precious 

pearls, 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum 

came. 290 

And Rustum to the Persian front ad- 
vanced, 
And Sohrab armed in Haman's tent, and 

came. 
And as afield the reapers cut a swath 



Down through the middle of a rich man's 

corn. 
And on each side are squares of standing 

corn, 295 

And in the midst a stubble, short and 

bare — 
So on each side were squares of men, with 

spears 
Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. 
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 
His eyes towards the Tartar tents, and 

saw 300 

Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he 

came. 
As some rich woman, on a winter's 

morn. 
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor 

drudge 
Who with numb blackened fingers makes 

her fire — 
At cock-crow on a starlit winter's morn, 305 
When the frost flowers the whitened 

window-panes — 
And wonders how she lives, and what the 

thoughts 
Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum 

eyed 
The unknown adventurous youth, who 

from afar 309 

Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
All the most valiant chiefs : long he perused 
His spirited air, and wondered who he was. 
For very young he seemed, tenderly 

reared ; 
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, 

and straight, 
Which in a queen's secluded garden 

throws 315 

Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit 

turf, 
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's 

sound — 
So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. 
And a deep pity entered Rustum's soul 
As he beheld him coming; and he stood, 320 
And beckoned to him with his hand, and 

said : — 
"0 thou young man, the air of Heaven 

is soft. 
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave 

is coldl 
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead 

grave. 
Behold me! I am vast, and clad in iron, 325 



698 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And tried; and I have stood on many a 

field 
Of blood, and I have fought with many a 

foe — 
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on 

death? 
Be governed! quit the Tartar host, and 

come 330 

To Iran, and be as my son to me, 
And fight beneath my banner till I die. 
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou." 
So he spake, mildly: Sohrab heard his 

voice, 
The mighty voice of Rustum, and he 

saw 335 

His giant figure planted on the sand, 
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Has builded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers ; and he saw that head. 
Streaked with its first gray hairs; — hope 

filled his soul, 340 

And he ran forward and embraced his 

knees, 
And clasped his hand within his own, and 

said: — 
"0, by thy father's head! by thine own 

soul! 
Art thou not Rustum? speak! art thou 

not he?" 
But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling 

youth, _ 345 

And turned away, and spake to his own 

soul :— 
"Ah me, I muse what this young fox 

may mean! 
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
For if I now confess this thing he asks, 
And hide it not, but say: Rustum is here! 350 
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, 
But he will find some pretext not to fight, 
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous 

gifts, 
A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 
And on a feast day, in Afrasiab's hall, 355 
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry: 
'I challenged once, when the two armies 

camped 
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
To cope with me in single fight; but they 
Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and 

I 360 

Changed gifts, and went on equal terms 

away.' • • 



So will he speak, perhaps, while men 

applaud; 
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed 

through me." 
And then he turned, and sternly spake 

aloud : — 
"Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly ques- 
tion thus 365 
Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast 

called 
By challenge forth: make good thy vaunt, 

or yield ! 
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? 
Rash boy, men look on Rustum^s face 

and flee. 
For well I know, that did great Rustum 

stand 370 

Before thy face this day, and were revealed. 
There would be then no talk of fighting 

more. 
But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul: 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and 

yield; 375 

Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till 

winds 
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer- 
floods, 
Oxus in summer wash them all away." 
He spoke: and Sohrab answered, on 

his feet: — 
"Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright 

me so! 380 

I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum 

stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting 

then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand 

here. 
Begin! thou art more vast, more dread 

than I, 38s 

And thou art proved, I know, and I am 

young — 
But yet success sways with the breath of 

Heaven. 
And though thou thinkest that thou 

knowest sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely 

know. 
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 390 
Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, 
Which hangs uncertain to which side to 

fall. 



ARNOLD 



699 



And whether it will heave us up to land, 1 
Or whether it will roll us out to sea, | 

Back out to sea, to the deep waves of 

death, 395 

We know not, and no search will make 

us know; 
Only the event will teach us in its hour." 
He spoke, and Rustum answered not, 

but hurled 
His spear; down from the shoulder, down 

it came 
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk 400 
That long has towered in the airy clouds 
Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come, 
And sprang aside, quick as a flash: the 

spear 
Hissed, and went quivering down into the 

sand. 
Which it sent flying wide; — then Sohrab 

threw 405 

In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield; 

sharp rang, 
The iron plates rang sharp, but turned 

the spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none 

but he 
Could wield: an unlopped trunk it was, 

and huge. 
Still rough — like those which men in tree- 
less plains 410 
To build them boats fish from the flooded 

rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
By their dark springs, the wind in winter- 
time 
Has made in Himalayan forests wrack. 
And strewn the channels with torn boughs 

— so huge 415 

The club which Rustum lifted now, and 

struck 
One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang 

aside, 
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club 

came 
Thundering to earth, and leaped from Rus- 
tum's hand. 
And Rustum followed his own blow, and 

fell 420 

To his knees, and with his fingers clutched 

the sand. 
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed 

his sword, 
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he 

lay 



Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with 

sand; 
But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared 

his sword, 425 

But courteously drew back, and spoke, 

and said: — 
"Thou strikest too hard! that club of 

thine will float 
Upon the summer-floods, and not my 

bones. 
But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am 

I; 

No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my 

soul. 430 

Thou sayst thou art not Rustum: be it so. 
Who art thou then, that canst so touch 

my soul? 
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too — 
Have waded foremost in their bloody 

waves. 
And heard their hollow roar of dying 

men; ' 435 

But never was my heart thus touched 

before. 
Are they from Heaven, these softenings 

of the heart? 
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! 
Come, plant we here in earth our angry 

spears. 
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand. 
And pledge each other in red wine, like 

friends, 441 

And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's 

deeds. 
There are enough foes in the Persian 

host. 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel 

no pang; 
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom 

thou 445 

Mayst fight; fight them, when they con- 
front thy spear! 
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and 

me!" 
He ceased: but while he spake, Rustum 

had risen. 
And stood erect, trembling with rage: his 

club 
He left to He, but had regained his spear. 
Whose fier}^ point now in his mailed right- 
hand 451 
Blazed bright and baleful, like that 

autumn-star, 
The baleful sign of fevers: dust had soiled 



700 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



His stately crest, and dimmed his glitter- 
ing arms. 
His breast heaved, his lips foamed, and 

twice his voice 455 

Was choked with rage : at last these words 

broke way: — 
"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with 

thy hands I 
Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet i 

words ! 
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no , 

more! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 460 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art 

wont to dance; 
But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and with me, who make no 

play 
Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, 

and wine I 465 

Remember all thy valor: try thy feints 
And cunning! all the pity I had is gone; 
Because thou hast shamed me before both 

the hosts 
With thy hght skipping tricks, and thy 

girl's wiles." 
He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his 

taunts, 470 

And he too drew his sword: at once they 

rushed 
Together, as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the 

clouds. 
One from the east, one from the west; 

their shields 474 

Dashed with a clang together, and a din 
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
Make often in the forest's heart at morn. 
Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such 

blows 
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. 
And you would say that sun and stars 

took part 480 

In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud 
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and darked the 

sun 
Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose 
Under their feet, and moaning swept the 

plain. 
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the 

pair. 485 

In gloom they twain were wrapped, and 

they alone; 



For both the on-looking hosts on either 

hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was 

pure. 
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
But in the gloom they fought, with blood- 
shot eyes 490 
And laboring breath; first Rustum struck 

the shield 
Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel- 
spiked spear 
Rent the tough plates, but failed to 

reach the skin. 
And Rustum plucked it back with angry 

groan. 
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rus- 

tum's helm, 495 

Nor clove its steel quite through; but all 

the crest 
He shore away, and that proud horse- 
hair plume. 
Never till new defiled, sank to the dust; 
And Rustum bowed his head; but then 

the gloom 
Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the 

air, 500 

And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, 

the horse. 
Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful 

cry;— 
No horse's cry was that, most like the 

roar 
Of some pained desert lion, who all day 
Hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his 

side, 505 

And comes at night to die upon the sand. 
The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked 

for fear, 
And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. 
But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but 

rushed on. 
And struck again; and again Rustum 

bowed 510 

His head; but this time all the blade, like 

glass. 
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the 

helm, 
And in his hand the hilt remained alone. 
Then R.ustum raised his head; his dreadful 

eyes 
Glared, and he shook on high his menacing 

spear, 51S 

And shouted, Rustum! — Sohrab heard that 

shout, 



ARNOLD 



701 



And shrank amazed: back he recoiled one 

step, 
And scanned with blinking eyes the ad- 
vancing form; 
And then he stood bewildered; and he 

dropped 
His covering shield, and the spear pierced 

his side. 520 

He reeled, and staggering back, sank to 

the ground; 
And then the gloom dispersed, and the 

wind fell. 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted 

all 
The cloud; and the two armies saw the 

pair — 
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his 

feet, 525 

And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody 

sand. 
Then with a bitter smile, Rustum 

began : — 
"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind 

to kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his 

corpse. 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
Or else that the great Rustum would come 

down 531 

Himself to fight, and that thy wiles 

would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
And then that all the Tartar host would 

praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy 

fame, 535 

To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown 

man! 
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father 

old." 
And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab 

replied: — 540 

"Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt 

is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful 

man! 
No I Rustum slays me, and this filial 

heart. 
For were I matched with ten such men 

as thee, 
x\nd I were that which till to-day I was, 545 
They should be lying here, I standing there. 



But that beloved name unnerved my 

arm — 
That name, and something, I confess, in 

thee. 
Which troubles all my heart, and made my 

shield 
Fall; and thy spear transfixed an un- 
armed foe. 550 
And now thou boastest, and insultest 

my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble 

to hear! 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my 

death! 
My father, whom I seek through all the 

world. 
He shall avenge my death, and punish 
thee!" _ 555 

As when some hunter in the spring 
hath found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest. 
Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake. 
And pierced her with an arrow as she 

rose. 
And followed her to find her where she 
fell 560 

Far off; — anon her mate comes winging 

back 
From hunting, and a great way off de- 
scries 
His huddHng young left sole; at that, he 

checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but 
she 566 

Lies dying, with the arrow in her side. 
In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 
A heap of fluttering feathers — never more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; 570 
Never the black and dripping precipices 
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by: — 
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows 

his loss. 
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but 

stood 
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 575 
But, with a cold incredulous voice, he 
said: — 
"What prate is this of fathers and re- 
venge? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son." 
And, with a failing voice, Sohrab re- 
plied:— 579 



702 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



"Ah! yes, he had! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his 

ear, 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries 

long, 
Somewhere, I know not where, but far 

from here. 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him 

leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon 

thee. 585 

Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! 
What will that grief, what will that 

vengeance be? 
Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her. 
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 590 
With that old king, her father, who grows 

gray 
With age, and rules over the vauant 

Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp. 
With spoils and honor, when the war is 

done. 595 

But a dark rumor will be bruited up. 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; 
And then will that defenceless woman 

learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; 
But that in battle with a nameless foe, 600 
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." 
He spoke; and as he ceased, he wept 

aloud, 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
He spoke; but Rustum listened, plunged 

in thought. 
Nor did he yet believe it was his son 605 
Who spoke, although he called back names 

he knew; 
For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him. 
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — 
So that sad mother sent him word, for 

fear 610 

Rustum should take the boy, to train in 

arms; 
And so he deemed that either Sohrab took. 
By a false boast, the style of Rustum's 

son; 
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
So deemed he; yet he listened, plunged 

in thought, 615 

And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 



Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 
At the full moon: tears gathered in his 

eyes; 
For he remembered his own early youth, 
And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, 
The shepherd from his mountain-lodge 

descries 621 

A far, bright city, smitten by the sun. 
Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum 

saw 
His youth; saw Sohrab 's mother, in her 

bloom; 
And that old king, her father, who loved 

well 625 

His wandering guest, and gave him his 

fair child 
With joy; and all the pleasant life they 

led. 
They three, in that long-distant summer- 
time — 
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
And hound, and morn on those delightful 

hills 630 

In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth. 
Of age and looks to be his own dear son. 
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
Like some rich hyacinth which by the 

scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 635 
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its 

bed. 
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, 
On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay. 
Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and 

said: — 640 

"0 Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 

Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well 

have loved. 
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
Have told thee false — thou art not Rus- 
tum's son. 
For Rustum had no son: one child he 

had — 645 

But one — a girl; who with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of 

us — 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor 

war." 
But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for 

now 
The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew 

fierce, 650 

And he desired to draw forth the steel, 



ARNOLD 



703 



And let the blood flow free, and so to die — 
But first he would convince his stubborn 

foe; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: — 
"Man, who art thou who dost deny my 

words? 655 

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, 
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from 

mine. 
I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear 
That seal which Rustum to my mother 

gave, 
That she might prick it on the babe she 

bore." 660 

He spoke; and all the blood left Rus- 

tum's cheeks. 
And his knees tottered, and he smote his 

hand 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 
That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud; 
And to his heart he pressed the other 

hand, 665 

And in a hollow voice he spake, and said: — 

"Sohrab, that were a proof which could 

not lie ! 
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's 

son." 
Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab 

loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his 

arm, 670 

And showed a sign in faint vermilion points 
Pricked; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
Pricks with vermiHon some clear porcelain 

vase, 
An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints. 
And all day long, and, when night comes, 

the lamp 675 

Lights up his studious forehead and thin 

hands — 
So delicately pricked the sign appeared 
On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's 

seal. 
It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, 
Rustum's great father, whom they left to 

die, 680 

A helpless babe, among the mountain 

rocks ; 
Him that kind creature found, and reared, 

and loved — 
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 
And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, 
And himself scanned it long with mournful 

eyes, 685 



And then he touched it with his hand and 

said: — 
"How say'st thou? Is that sign the 

proper sign 
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's? " 
He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and 

gazed, and stood 
Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp 

cry: 690 

"O boy — thy father!'^ — and his voice 

choked there. 
And then a dark cloud passed before his 

eyes, 
And his head swam, and he sank down to 

earth. 
But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and 

cast 
His arms about his neck, and kissed his 

lips, _ 69s 

And with fond faltering fingers stroked 

his cheeks, 
Trying to call him back to life; and life 
Came back to Rustum, and he oped his 

eyes, 
And they stood wide with horror; and he 

seized 
In both his hands the dust which lay 

around, 700 

And threw it on his head, and smirched 

his hair, — 
His hair, and face, and beard, and glitter- 
ing arms; 
And strong convulsive groanings shook 

his breast, 
And his sobs choked him; and he clutched 

his sword. 
To draw it, and forever let life out. 705 
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his 

hands, 
And with a soothing voice he' spake, and 

said : — 
"Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day 
The doom that at my birth was written 

down 
In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's uncon- 
scious hand. ' 710 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou. 
When first I saw thee; and thy heart s[X)ke 

too, 
I know it! but fate trod those promptings 

. down 
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged 
The strife, and hurled me on my father's 

spear. 715 



704 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



But let us speak no more of this ! I find 
My father; let me feel that I have found! 
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and 

take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my 

cheeks, 
And wash them with thy tears, and say: 

^My son!' 720 

Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands 

of life. 
And swift; for like the lightning to this 

field 
I came, and like the wind I go away — 
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing 

wind. 
But it was writ in Heaven that this 

should be." 725 

So said he: and his voice released the 

heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; 

he cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept 

aloud, 
And kissed him. And awe fell on both 

the hosts 
When they saw Rustum's grief: and 

Ruksh, the horse, 730 

With his head bowing to the ground and 

mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in 

mute woe 
First to the one, then to the other moved 
His head, as if inquiring what their grief 
Might mean; and from his dark, compas- 
sionate eyes, 735 
The big warm tears rolled down, and 

caked the sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stem voice, 

and said: — 
"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O 

Ruksh, thy feet 
Should first have rotted on their nimble 

joints. 
Or ere they bore thy master to this field! " 
But Sohrab looked upon the horse and 

said: — 741 

"Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past 

days. 
My mother told me of thee, thou brave 

steed. 
My terrible father's terrible horse! and 

said. 
That I should one day find thy lord and 

thee. 745 



Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane! 
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; 
For thou hast gone where I shall never 

go, 
And snuffed the breezes of my father's 

home. 
And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 
And seen the river of Helmund, and the 

Lake 751 

Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself 
Has often stroked thy neck, and given 

thee food. 
Corn in a golden platter soaked with 

wine, 
And said '0 Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' 

but I 755 

Have never known my grandsire's fur- 
rowed face. 
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Hel- 
mund stream; 
But lodged among my father's foes, and 

seen 
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 760 
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste. 
And the black Toorkmun tents; and only 

drunk 
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their 

sheep. 
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus 

stream — 765 

The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." 

And, with a heavy groan, Rustum 

bewailed: — 
"Oh, that its waves were flowing over 

me! 
Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my 

head!" 77° 

But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab 

replied : — 
"Desire not that, my father! thou must 

live. 
For some are born to do great deeds, and 

live. 
As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do. 
And reap a second glory in thine age; 776 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come! thou seest this great host of 

men 
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not 

these! 



ARNOLD 



705 



Let me entreat for them; what have they 

done? 780 

They followed me, my hope, my fame, my 

star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
But me thou must bear hence, not send 

with them, 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for 

me, 785 

Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all 

thy friends. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely 

earth. 
And heap a stately mound above my 

bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all : 
That so the passing horseman on the 

waste 790 

May see my tomb a great way off, and 

cry: 
^Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies 

there, 
Whom his great father did in ignorance 
' kilV— 

And I be not forgotten in my grave." 
And, with a mournful voice, Rustum 

replied: — 795 

"Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my 

son, 
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents. 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence 

with me, 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn 

for thee, 800 

With the snow-headed Zal, and all my 

friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth. 
And heap a stately mound above thy 

bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all, 
And men shall not forget thee in thy 

grave. 805 

And I will spare thy host; yea, let them 

go! 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace ! 
What should I do with slaying any more? 
For would that all whom I have ever 

slain 
Might be once more alive; my bitterest 

foes, 810 

And they \\\\o were called champions in 

their time, 



And through whose death I won that 

fame I have — 
And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without re- 
nown. 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my 

son! 815 

Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke 

of thine. 
Not thou of mine! and I might die, not 

thou; 
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; 820 
And Zal might weep above my grave, 

not thine; 
And say 'O son, I weep thee not too sore, 
For willingly, I know, thou mefst thine end. ' 
But now in blood and battles was my 

youth. 
And full of blood and battles is my age, 825 
And I shall never end this life of blood." 
Then, at the point of death, Sohrab 

replied : — 
" A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! 
But thou shalt yet have peace; only not 

now, 
Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that 

day, 830 

When thou shalt sail in a high-masted 

ship. 

Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo, 

Returning home over the salt blue sea, 

From laying thy dear master in his grave." 

And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, 

and said: — ■ S3 5 

" Soon be that day, my son, and deep that 

sea! 
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." 
He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, 

and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and 

eased 
His wound's imperious anguish; but the 

blood 840 

Came welling from the open 2;ash, and 

life 
Flowed with the stream; — all down his 

cold white side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and 

soiled 
I Like the soiled tissue of white \-iolets 
Left, freshly gathered, on their native 

bank, 845 



7o6 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



By romping children, whom their nurses 

call 
Indoors from the sun's eye; his head 

drooped low, 
His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, 

he lay — 
White, with eyes closed; only when heavy 

gasps, 
Deep heavy gasps quivering through all 

his frame, 850 

Convulsed him back to life, he opened 

them. 
And fixed them feebly on his father's 

face; 
Till now all strength was ebbed, and from 

his limbs 
Unwillingly the spirit fled away. 
Regretting the warm mansion which it 

left, 855 

And youth, and bloom, and this delight- 
ful world. 
So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead; 
And the great Rustum drew his horse- 
man's cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead 

son. 
As those black granite pillars, once high- 
reared 860 
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now 'mid their broken flights 

of steps 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain 

side — 
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 
And night came down over the solemn 

waste, 865 

And the two gazing hosts, and that sole 

pair, 
And darkened all; and a cold fog, with 

night. 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog: for 

now 870 

Both armies moved to camp, and took 

their meal; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward, the Tartars by the river marge : 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 
But the majestic river floated on, 875 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land, 
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved. 
Rejoicing, through the hushed Choras- 

mian waste, 



Under the solitary moon; — he flowed 
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 
Brimming, and bright, and large; then 

sands begin 881 

To hem his watery march, and dam his 

streams. 
And split his currents; that for many a 

league 
The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand and matted rushy 

isles — 885 

Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere, 
A foiled circuitous wanderer — till at last 
The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and 

wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, 

bright 890 

And tranquil, from whose floor the new- 
bathed stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 

THE AUSTERITY OF POETRY 

• 

That son of Italy who tried to blow. 
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, 
In his light youth amid a festal throng 
Sat with his bride to see a pubHc show. 
Fair was the bride, and on her front did 

glow s 

Youth like a star; and what to youth 

belong — 
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation 

strong. 
A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo, 
'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, 

she lay! 
Shuddering, they drew her garments off 

— and found 10 

A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, 

white skin. 
Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! 

young, gay. 
Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground 
Of thought and of austerity within. 

RUGBY CHAPEL 

NOVEMBER 1 85 7 

Coldly, sadly descends 
The autumn evening. The field 
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts 
Of withered leaves, and the elms, 



ARNOLD 



707 



Fade into dimness apace, 5 

Silent; — hardly a shout 

From a few boys late at their play! 

The lights come out in the street, 

In the school- room windows; — but cold, 

Solemn, unlighted, austere, 10 

Through the gathering darkness, arise 

The chapel-walls, in whose bound 

Thou, my father! art laid. 

There thou dost He, in the gloom 

Of the autumn evening. But ah! 15 

That word, gloom, to my mind 

Brings thee back, in the light 

Of thy radiant vigor, again; 

In the gloom of November we passed 

Days not dark at thy side; 20 

Seasons impaired not the ray 

Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. 

Such thou wast! and I stand 

In the autumn evening, and think 

Of bygone autumns with thee. 25 

Fifteen years have gone round 

Since thou arosest to tread, 

In the summer-morning, the road 

Of death, at a call unforeseen. 

Sudden. For fifteen years, 30 

We who till then in thy shade 

Rested as under the boughs 

Of a mighty oak, have endured 

Sunshine and rain as we might, 

Bare, unshaded, alone, 35 

Lacking the shelter of thee. 

strong soul, by what shore 
Tarriest thou now? For that force, 
Surely, has not been left vain! 
Somewhere, surely, afar, 40 

In the sounding labor-house vast 
Of bemg, is practised that strength. 
Zealous, beneficent, firm! 



Yes, in some far-shining sphere, 
Conscious or not of the past. 
Still thou performest the word 
Of the Spirit in whom thou dost livi 
Prompt, unwearied, as here! 
Still thou upraisest with zeal 
The humble good from the ground, 
Sternly repressest the bad! 
Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 
Those who with half-open eyes 
Tread the border-land dim 



45 



'Twixt vice and virtue; revivest, 
Succorest! This was thy work. 
This was thy hfe upon earth. 



55 



What is the course of the life 

Of mortal men on the earth? 

Most men eddy about 60 

Here and there — eat and drink, 

Chatter and love and hate. 

Gather and squander, are raised 

Aloft, are hurled in the dust. 

Striving blindly, achieving 65 

Nothing; and then they die — 

Perish; — and no one asks 

Who or what they have been, 

More than he asks what waves. 

In the moonlit solitudes mild 70 

Of the midmost Ocean, have swelled. 

Foamed for a moment, and gone. 

And there are some, whom a thirst 

Ardent, unquenchable, fires. 

Not with the crowd to be spent, 75 

Not without aim to go round 

In an eddy of purposeless dust, 

Effort unmeaning and vain. 

Ah, yes! some of us strive 

Not without action to die 80 

Fruitless, but something to snatch 

From dull oblivion, nor all 

Glut the devouring grave! 

We, we have chosen our path — 

Path to a clear-purposed goal, 85 

Path of advance! — but it leads 

A long, steep journey, through sunk 

Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. 

Cheerful, with friends, we set forth — 

Then, on the height, comes the storm. 90 

Thunder crashes from rock 

To rock, the cataracts reply; 

Lightnings dazzle our eyes; 

Roaring torrents have breached 

The track; the stream-bed descends 95 

In the place where the wayfarer once 

Planted his footstep — the spray 

Boils o'er its borders! aloft 

The unseen snow-beds dislodge 

Their hanging ruin! alas, 100 

Havoc is made in our train! 

Friends, who set forth at our side, 

Falter, are lost in the storm. 

We, we only are left! 

With frowning foreheads, with lips 105 

Sternly compressed, we strain on, 



7o8 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



On — and at nightfall at last 
Come to the end of our way, 
To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks; 
Where the gaunt and taciturn host 
Stands on the threshold, the wind 
Shaking his thin white hairs — 
Holds his lantern to scan 
Our storm-beat figures, and asks: 
Whom in our party we bring, 
Whom we have left in the snow? 



"5 



Sadly we answer: We bring 

Only ourselves! we lost 

Sight of the rest in the storm. 

Hardly ourselves we fought through, 120 

Stripped, without friends, as we are. 

Friends, companions, and train. 

The avalanche swept from our side. 

But thou would'st not alone 

Be saved, my father! alone 125 

Conquer and come to thy goal, 

Leaving the rest in the wild. 

We were weary, and we 

Fearful, and we in our march 

Fain to drop down and to die. 130 

Still thou turnedst, and still 

Beckonedst the trembler, and still 

Gavest the weary thy hand. 

If, in the paths of the world. 

Stones might have wounded thy feet, 135 

Toil or dejection have tried 

Thy spirit, of that we saw 

Nothing — to us thou wast still 

Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! 

Therefore to thee it was given 140 

Many to save with thyself; 

And, at the end of thy day,' 

O faithful shepherd! to come. 

Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 

And through thee I beUeve 145 

In the noble and great who are gone; 

Pure souls honored and blest 

By former ages, who else — 

Such, so soulless, so poor. 

Is the race of men whom I see — 150 

Seemed but a dream of the heart, 

Seemed but a cry of desire. 

Yes! I believe that there lived 

Others like thee in the past, 

Not like the men of the crowd 155 

Who all round me to-day 



Bluster or cringe, and make life 

Hideous, and arid, and vile; 

But souls tempered with fire, 

Fervent, heroic, and good, 160 

Helpers and friends of mankind. 

Servants of God! — or sons 

Shall I not call you? because 

Not as servants ye knew 

Your Father's innermost mind, 165 

His, who unwillingly sees 

One of his little ones lost — 

Yours is the praise, if mankind 

Hath not as yet in its march 

Fainted, and fallen, and died! 170 

See! In the rocks of the world 

Marches the host of mankind, 

A feeble, wavering line. 

Where are they tending? — A God 

Marshalled them, gave them their goal. — 

Ah, but the way is so long ! 176 

Years they have been in the wild ! 

Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, 

Rising all round, overawe; 

Factions divide them, their host 180 

Threatens to break, to dissolve. 

— Ah, keep, keep them combined! 

Else, of the myriads who fill 

That army, not one shall arrive; 

Sole they shall stray; on the rocks 185 

Batter for ever in vain. 

Die one by one in the waste. 

Then, in such hour of need 

Of your fainting, dispirited race, 

Ye, like angels, appear, 190 

Radiant with ardor divine. 

Beacons of hope, ye appear! 

Languor is not in your heart. 

Weakness is not in your word. 

Weariness not on your brow. 195 

Ye alight in our van ! at your voice 

Panic, despair, flee away. 

Ye move through the ranks, recall 

The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 

Praise, re-inspire the brave. 200 

Order, courage, return; 

Eyes rekindling, and prayers, 

Follow your steps as ye go. 

Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 

Strengthen the wavering line, 205 

Stablish, continue our march, 

On, to the bound of the waste. 

On, to the City of God, 



ARNOLD 



709 



DOVER BEACH 

The sea is calm to-night, 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits; — on the French coast 

the light 
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England 

stand, 
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil 
bay. _ 5 

Come to the window, sweet is the night- 
air! 
Only, from the long line of spray 
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched 

land, 
Listen! you hear the grating roar 
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, 
and fling, 10 

At their return, up the high strand. 
Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 15 

Heard it on the ^Egean, and it brought 
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
Of human misery; we 
Find also in the sound a thought, 
Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20 

The Sea of Faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round 

earth's shore 
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. 
But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 25 
Retreating, to the breath 
Of the night- wind, down the vast edges 

drear 
And naked shingles of the world. 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another! for the world, which 

seems 30 

To lie before us like a land of dreams, 
So various, so beautiful, so new, 
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor 

light. 
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for 

pain; 
And we are here as on a darkling plain 35 
Swept with confused alarms of struggle 

and flight, 
Where ignorant armies clash by night. 



THE LAST WORD 

Creep into thy narrow bed, 
Creep, and let no more be said ! 
Vain thy onset! all stands fast. 
Thou thyself must break at last. 

Let the long contention cease! 5 

Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
Let them have it how they will ! 
Thou art tired; best be still. 

They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore 

thee? 
Better men fared thus before thee; 10 

Fired their ringing shot and passed, 
Hotly charged — and sank at last. 

Charge once more, then, and be dumb! 
Let the victors, when they come, 
When the forts of folly fall, 15 

Find thy body by the wall! 



LITERATURE AND SCIENCE 

Practical people talk with a smile of 
Plato and of his absolute ideas; and it is 
impossible to deny that Plato's ideas do 
often seem unpractical and impracticable, 
and especially when one \iews them in 
connection with the life of a great work-a- 
day world like the United States. The 
necessary staple of the life of such a world 
Plato regards with disdain; handicraft 
and trade and the working professions [10 
he regards with disdain; but what be- 
comes of the life of an industrial modern 
community if you take handicraft and 
trade and the working professions out of 
it? The base mechanic arts and handi- 
crafts, says Plato, bring about a natural 
weakness in the principle of excellence 
in a man, so that he cannot govern the 
ignoble growths in him, but nurses them, 
and cannot understand fostering any [20 
other. Those who exercise such arts and 
trades, as they ha^•e their bodies, he says 
marred, by their vulgar businesses, so 
they have their souls, too, bowed and 
broken by them. And if one of these 
uncomely people has a mind to seek self- 
culture and philosophy, Plato compares 
him to a bald little tinker, who has scraped 



7IO 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



together money, and has got his release 
from service, and has had a bath, and [30 
bought a new coat, and is rigged out b'ke 
a bridegroom about to marry the daughter 
of his master who has fallen into poor 
and helpless estate. 

Nor do the working professions fare 
any better than trade at the hands of 
Plato. He draws for us an inimitable 
picture of the working lawyer, and of his 
life of bondage; he shows how this bond- 
age from his youth up has stunted [40 
and warped him, and made him small 
and crooked of soul, encompassing him 
with difficulties which he is not man 
enough to rely on justice and truth as 
means to encounter, but has recourse, 
for help out of them, to falsehood and 
wrong. And so, says Plato, this poor 
creature is bent and broken, and grows 
up from boy to man without a particle of 
soundness in him, although exceed- [50 
ingly smart and clever in his own es- 
teem. 

One cannot refuse to admire the artist 
who draws these pictures. But we say to 
ourselves that his ideas show the influence 
of a primitive and obsolete order of things, 
when the warrior caste and the priestly 
caste were alone in honor, and the humble 
work of the world was done by slaves. 
We have now changed all that; the mod- [60 
ern majority consists in work, as Emerson 
declares; and in work, we may add, prin- 
cipally of such plain and dusty kind as 
the work of cultivators of the ground, 
handicraftsmen, men of trade and business, 
men of the working professions. Above 
all is this true in a great industrious 
community such as that of the United 
States. 

Now education, many people go on [70 
to say, is still mainly governed by the ideas 
of men like Plato, who lived when the 
warrior caste and the priestly or philo- 
sophical class were alone in honor, and the 
really useful part of the community were 
slaves. It is an education fitted for per- 
sons of leisure in such a community. 
This education passed from Greece and 
Rome to the feudal communities of 
Europe, where also the warrior caste [80 
and the priestly caste were alone held in 
honor, and where the really useful and 



working part of the community, though 
not nominally slaves as in the pagan 
world, were practically not much better 
off than slaves, and not more seriously 
regarded. And how absurd it is, people 
end by saying, to inflict this educa- 
tion upon an industrious modern com- 
munity, where very few indeed are per- [90 
sons of leisure, and the mass to be con- 
sidered has not leisure, but is bound, for 
its own great good, and for the great 
good of the world at large, to plain labor 
and to industrial pursuits, and the educa- 
tion in question tends necessarily to make 
men dissatisfied with these pursuits and 
unfitted for them! 

That is what is said. So far I must 
defend Plato, as to plead that his view [100 
of education and studies is in the general, 
as it seems to me, sound enough, and 
fitted for all sorts and conditions of men, 
whatever their pursuits may be. "An in- 
telligent man," says Plato, "will prize 
those studies which result in his soul 
getting soberness, righteousness, and wis- 
dom, and will less value the others." 
I cannot consider that a bad description 
of the aim of education, and of the mo- [no 
fives which should govern us in the choice 
of studies, whether we are preparing our- 
selves for a hereditary seat in the English 
House of Lords or for the pork trade in 
Chicago. 

Still I admit that Plato's world was not 
ours, that his scorn of trade and handi- 
craft is fantastic, that he had no con- 
ception of a great industrial community 
such as that of the United States, and [120 
that such a community must and will 
shape its education to suit its own needs. 
If the usual education handed down to 
it from the past does not suit it, it will 
certainly before long drop this and try 
another. The usual education in the past 
has been mainly literary. The question 
is whether the studies which were 
long supposed to be the best for all of us 
are practically the best now; whether [130 
others are not better. The tyranny of 
the past, many think, weighs on us in- 
juriously in the predominance given to 
letters in education. The question is 
raised whether, to meet the needs of our 
modern life, the predominance ought 



ARNOLD 



711 



not now to pass from letters to science; 
and naturally the question is nowhere 
raised with more energy than here in the 
United States. The design of abasing [140 
what is called "mere Hterary instruction 
and education," and of exalting what is 
called "sound, extensive, and practical 
scientific knowledge," is, in this intensely 
modern world of the United States, even 
more perhaps than in Europe, a very 
popular design, and makes great and 
rapid progress. 

I am going to ask whether the present 
movement for ousting letters from their [150 
old predominance in education, and for 
transferring the predominance in educa- 
tion to the natural sciences, whether this 
brisk and flourishing movement ought to 
prevail, and whether it is likely that in 
the end it really will prevail. An objec- 
tion may be raised which I will antici- 
pate. My own studies have been almost 
wholly in letters, and my visits to the 
field of the natural sciences have been [160 
very slight and inadequate, although 
those sciences have always strongly moved 
my curiosity. A man of letters, it will 
perhaps be said, is not competent to dis- 
cuss the comparative merits of letters and 
natural science as means of education. 
To this objection I reply, first of all, that 
his incompetence, if he attempts the dis- 
cussion but is really incompetent for it, will 
be abundantly visible; nobody will be [170 
taken in; he will have plenty of sharp 
observers and critics to save mankind 
from that danger. But the line I am going 
to follow is, as you will soon discover, so 
extremely simple, that perhaps it may 
be followed without failure even by 
one who for a more ambitious line 
of discussion would be quite incompe- 
tent. 

Some of you may possibly remember [180 
a phrase of mine which has been the object 
of a good deal of comment ; an observation 
to the effect that in our culture, the aim 
being to know ourselves and the world, we 
have, as the means to this end, to know the 
best which has been thought and said in 
the world. A man of science, who is also 
an excellent writer and the very prince of 
debaters, Professor Huxley, in a discourse 
at the opening of Sir Josiah Mason's [iqo 



college at Birmingham, laying hold of 
this phrase, expanded it by quoting some 
more words of mine, which are these: 
"The civilised world is to be regarded as 
now being, for intellectual and spiritual 
purposes, one great confederation, bound 
to a joint action and working to a com- 
mon result; and whose members have 
for their proper outfit a knowledge of 
Greek, Roman, and Eastern antiquity, [200 
and of one another. Special local and 
temporary advantages being put out of 
account, that modern nation will in the 
intellectual and spiritual sphere make 
most progress, which most thoroughly 
carries out this programme." 

Now on my phrase, thus enlarged. 
Professor Huxley remarks that when I 
speak of the above-mentioned knowledge 
as enabling us to know ourselves and [210 
the world, I assert literature to contain the 
materials which sufl&ce for thus making 
us know ourselves and the world. But 
it is not by any means clear, says he, 
that after having learnt all which ancient 
and modern literatures have to tell us, 
we have laid a sufficiently broad and 
deep foundation for that criticism of life, 
that knowledge of ourselves and the world, 
which constitutes culture. On the [220 
contrary. Professor Huxley declares that 
he finds himself "wholly unable to admit 
that either nations or individuals will 
really advance, if their outfit draws 
nothing from the stores of physical 
science. An army without weapons of 
precision, and with no particular base of 
operations, might more hopefully enter 
upon a campaign on the Rhine, than 
a man, devoid of a knowledge of [230 
what physical science has done in the 
last century, upon a criticism of 
life." 

This shows how needful it is for those 
who are to discuss any matter together, 
to have a common understanding as to 
the sense of the terms they employ, — 
how needful, and how difficult. What 
Professor Huxley says, implies just the 
reproach which is so often brought [240 
against the study of belles lettres, as they 
are called: that the study is an elegant 
one, but slight and ineffectual; a smatter- 
ing of Greek and Latin and other orna- 



712 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



mental things, of little use for any one 
whose object is to get at truth, and to be 
a practical man. So, too, M. Renan talks 
of the "superficial humanism" of a school- 
course which treats us as if we were all 
going to be poets, writers, preachers, [250 
orators, and he opposes this humanism to 
positive science, or the critical search 
after truth. And there is always a tend- 
ency in those who are remonstrating 
against the predominance of letters in 
education, to understand by letters helles 
lettres, and by belles lettres a superficial 
humanism, the opposite of science or true 
knowledge. 

But when we talk of knowing Greek [260 
and Roman antiquity, for instance, which 
is the knowledge people have called the 
humanities, I for my part mean a knowl- 
edge which is something more than a 
superficial humanism, mainly decorative. 
"I call all teaching scientific,^' says Wolf, 
the critic of Homer, "which is systematic- 
ally laid out and followed up to its ori- 
ginal sources. For example: a knowledge 
of classical antiquity is scientific [270 
when the remains of classical antiquity 
are correctly studied in the original lan- 
guages." There can be no doubt that 
Wolf is perfectly right; that all learning 
is scientific which is systematically laid 
out and followed up to its original sources, 
and that a genuine humanism is scientific. 

When I speak of knowing Greek and 
Roman antiquity, therefore, as a help to 
knowing ourselves and the world, I [280 
mean more than a knowledge of so much 
vocabulary, so much grammar, so many 
portions of authors in the Greek and Latin 
languages, I mean knowing the Greeks 
and Romans, and their life and genius, 
and what they were and did in the world; 
what we get from them, and what is its 
value. That, at least, is the ideal; and 
when we talk of endeavoring to know 
Greek and Roman antiquity, as a [290 
help to knowing ourselves and the world, 
we mean endeavoring so to know them 
as to satisfy this ideal, however much we 
may still fall short of it. 

The same also as to knowing our own 
and other modern nations, with the like 
aim of getting to understand ourselves 
and the world. To know the best that 



has been thought and said by the modern 
nations, is to know, says Professor [300 
Huxley, "only what modern literatures 
have to tell us; it is the criticism of life 
contained in modern literature." And 
yet "the distinctive character of our 
times," he urges, "lies in the vast and 
constantly increasing part which is played 
by natural knowledge." And how, there- 
fore, can a man, devoid of knowledge of 
what physical science has done in the 
last century, enter hopefully upon a [310 
criticism of modern life? 

Let us, I say, be agreed about the mean- 
ing of the terms we are using. I talk of 
knowing the best which has been thought 
and uttered in the world; Professor 
Huxley says this means knowing litera- 
ture. Literature is a large word; it may 
mean everything written with letters or 
printed in a book. Euclid's Elements 
and Newton's Principia are thus [320 
literature. All knowledge that reaches us 
through books is literature. But by litera- 
ture Professor Huxley means belles lettres. 
He means to make me say, that knowing 
the best which has been thought and 
said by the modern nations is knowing 
their belles lettres and no more. And this 
is no sufficient equipment, he argues, for 
a criticism of modern life. But as I do 
not mean, by knowing ancient Rome, [330 
knowing merely more or less of Latin 
belles lettres, and taking no account of 
Rome's military, and political, and legal, 
and administrative work in the world; 
and as, by knowing ancient Greece, I 
understand knowing her as the giver of 
Greek art, and the guide to a free and 
right use of reason and to scientific 
method, and the founder of our mathe- 
matics and physics and astronomy [340 
and biology, — I understand knowing her 
as all this, and not merely knowing certain 
Greek poems, and histories, and treatises, 
and speeches, — so as to the knowledge 
of modern nations also. By knowing 
modern nations, I mean not merely know- 
ing their belles lettres, but knowing also 
what has been done by such men as 
Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Darwin. 
"Our ancestors learned," says Pro- [350 
fessor Huxley, "that the earth is the 
centre of the visible universe, and that 



ARNOLD 



713 



man is the cynosure of things terrestrial; 
and more especially was it inculcated that 
the course of nature has no fixed order, 
but that it could be, and constantly was, 
altered." But for us now, continues 
Professor Huxley, "the notions of the 
beginning and the end of the world enter- 
tained by our forefathers are no longer [360 
credible. It is very certS,in that the earth 
is not the chief body in the material uni- 
verse, and that the world is not subor- 
dinated to man's use. It is even more 
certain that nature is the expression of a 
definite order, with which nothing inter- 
feres." "And yet," he cries, "the purely 
classical education advocated by the 
representatives of the humanists in our 
day gives no inkling of all this!" [370 

In due place and time I will just touch 
upon that vexed question of classical 
education; but at present the question is 
as to what is meant by knowing the best 
which modern nations have thought and 
said. It is not knowing their belles lettres 
merely which is meant. To know Italian 
belles lettres is not to know Italy, and to 
know English belles lettres is not to know 
England. Into kno\^ang Italy and [380 
England there comes a great deal more, 
Galileo and Newton amongst it. The 
reproach of being a superficial humanism, 
a tincture of belles lettres, may attach 
rightly enough to some other disciplines; 
but to the particular discipline recom- 
mended when I proposed knowing the 
best that has been thought and said in 
the world, it does not apply. In that 
best I certainly include what in mod- [390 
ern times has been thought and said by 
the great observers and knowers of 
nature. 

There is, therefore, really no question 
between Professor Huxley and me as to 
whether knowing the great results of the 
modern scientific study of nature is not 
required as a part of our culture, as well 
as knowing the products of literature and 
art. But to follow the processes by [400 
which those results are reached, ought, 
say the friends of physical science, to 
be made the staple of education for the 
bulk of mankind. And here there does 
arise a question between those whom 
Professor Huxley calls with playful sar- i 



casm "the Levites of culture," and those 
whom the poor humanist is sometimes 
apt to regard as its Nebuchadnezzars. 

The great results of the scientific [410 
investigation of nature we are agreed 
upon knowing, but how much of our study 
are we bound to give to the processes by 
which those results are reached? The 
results have their visible bearing on 
human life. But all the processes, too, 
all the items of fact by which those results 
are reached and established, are interest- 
ing. All knowledge is interesting to a 
wise man, and the .knowledge of na- [420 
ture is interesting to all men. It is very 
interesting to know, that, from the al- 
buminous white of the egg, the chick in 
the egg gets the materials for its flesh, 
bones, blood, and feathers; while, from 
the fatty yelk of the egg, it gets the heat 
and energy which enable it at length to 
break its shell and begin the world. It 
is less interesting, perhaps, but still it 
is interesting, to know that when a [430 
taper burns, the wax is converted into 
carbonic acid and water. Moreover, it 
is quite true that the habit of dealing 
with facts, which is given by the study of 
nature, is, as the friends of physical 
science praise it for being, an excellent 
dsicipline. The appeal, in the study of 
nature, is constantly to observation and 
experiment; not only is it said that the 
thing is so, but we can be made to see [440 
that it is so. Not only does a man tell 
us that when a taper burns the wax is 
converted into carbonic acid and water, 
as a man may tell us, if he likes, that 
Charon is punting his ferry-boat on the 
river Styx, or that Victor Hugo is a sub- 
lime poet, or Mr. Gladstone the most 
admirable of statesmen; but we are made 
to see that the conversion into carbonic 
acid and water does actually happen. [450 
This reality of natural knowledge it is, 
which makes the friends of physical science 
contrast it, as a knowledge of things, 
with the humanist's knowledge, which is, 
they say, a knowledge of words. And 
hence Professor Huxley is moved to lay 
it down that, "for the purpose of attain- 
ing real culture, an exclusively scientific 
education is at least as effectual as an 
exclusively literary education." And [460 



714 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



a certain President of the Section for 
Mechanical Science in the British As- 
sociation is, in Scripture phrase, "very 
bold," and declares that if a man, in his 
mental training, "has substituted litera- 
ture and history for natural science, he 
has chosen the less useful alternative." 
But whether we go these lengths or not, 
we must all admit that in natural science 
the habit gained of dealing with facts [470 
is a most valuable discipline, and that 
every one should have some experience of 
it. 

More than this, however, is demanded 
by the reformers. It is proposed to make 
the training in natural science the main 
part of education, for the great majority 
of mankind at any rate. And here, I 
confess, I part company with the friends 
of physical science, with whom up to [480 
this point I have been agreeing. In dif- 
fering from them, however, I wish to 
proceed with the utmost caution and 
diffidence. The smallness of my own 
acquaintance with the disciplines of nat- 
ural science is ever before my mind, and 
I am fearful of doing these disciplines an 
injustice. The ability and pugnacity of 
the partisans of natural science make 
them formidable persons to contra- [490 
diet. The tone of tentative inquiry, which 
befits a being of dim faculties and bounded 
knowledge, is the tone I would wish to 
take and not to depart from. At present 
it seems to me, that those who are for 
giving to natural knowledge, as they call 
it, the chief place in the education of the 
majority of mankind, leave one important 
thing out of their account: the constitu- 
tion of human nature. But I put this [500 
forward on the strength of some facts 
not at all recondite, very far from it; facts 
capable of being stated in the simplest 
possible fashion, and to which, if I so 
state them, the man of science will, I 
am sure, be willing to allow their due 
weight. 

Deny the facts altogether, I think, he 
hardly can. He can hardly deny, that 
when we set ourselves to enumerate [510 
the powers which go to the building up of 
human life, and say that they are the 
power of conduct, the power of intellect 
and knowledge, the power of beauty, and 



the power of social life and manners, — he 
can hardly deny that this scheme, though 
drawn in rough and plain lines enough, 
and not pretending to scientific exactness, 
does yet give a fairly true representa- 
tion of the matter. Human nature is [520 
built up by these powers; we have the 
need for them all. When we have rightly 
met and adjusted' the claims of them all, 
we shall then be in a fair way for getting 
soberness and righteousness, with wis- 
dom. This is evident enough, and the 
friends of physical science would admit 
it. 

But perhaps they may not have suf- 
ficiently observed another thing: [530 
namely, that the several powers just 
mentioned are not isolated, but there is, 
in the generality of mankind, a perpetual 
tendency to relate them one to another in 
divers ways. With one such way of 
relating them I am particularly concerned 
now. Following our instinct for intellect 
and knowledge, we acquire pieces of 
knowledge; and presently, in the gen- 
erality of men, there arises the desire [540 
to relate these pieces of knowledge to our 
sense for conduct, to our sense for 
beauty, — and there is weariness and dis- 
satisfaction if the desire is baulked. 
Now in this desire lies, I think, the 
strength of that hold which letters have 
upon us. 

All knowledge is, as I said just now, 
interesting; and even items of knowledge 
which from the nature of the case [550 
cannot well be related, but must stand 
isolated in our thoughts, have their in- 
terest. Even lists of exceptions have 
their interest. If we are studying Greek 
accents, it is interesting to know that 
pais and pas, and some other mono- 
syllables of the same form of declension, 
do not take the circumflex upon the last 
syllable of the genitive plural, but vary, 
in this respect, from the common rule. [560 
If we are studying physiology, it is in- 
teresting to know that the pulmonary 
artery carries dark blood and the pul- 
monary vein carries bright blood, de- 
parting in this respect from the common 
rule for the division of labor between the 
veins and the arteries. But every one 
knows how we seek naturally to combine 



ARNOLD 



715 



the pieces of our knowledge together, 
to bring them under general rules, to [570 
relate them to principles; and how un- 
satisfactory and tiresome it would be to 
go on for ever learning lists of exceptions, 
or accumulating items of fact which must 
stand isolated. 

Well, that same need of relating our 
knowledge, which operates here within 
the sphere of our knowledge itself, we 
shall find operating, also, outside that 
sphere. We experience, as we go on [580 
learning and knowing, — -the vast majority 
of us experience, — the need of relating 
what we have learned and known to the 
sense which we have in us for conduct, 
to the sense which we have in us for 
beauty. 

A certain Greek prophetess of Man- 
tineia in Arcadia, Diotima by name, 
once explained to the philosopher Soc- 
rates that love, and impulse, and [590 
bent of all kinds, is, in fact, nothing else 
but the desire in men that good should 
for ever be present to them. This desire 
for good, Diotima assured Socrates, is 
our fundamental desire, of which funda- 
mental desire every impulse in us is only 
some one particular form. And therefore 
this fundamental desire it is, I suppose, — 
this desire in men that good should be 
for ever present to them, — which [600 
acts in us when we feel the impulse for 
relating our knowledge to our sense for 
conduct and to our sense for beauty. 
At any rate, with men in general the in- 
stinct exists. Such is human nature. 
And the instinct, it will be admitted, is 
innocent, and human nature is preserved 
by our following the lead of its innocent 
instinctt.. Therefore, in seeking to gratify 
this instinct in question, we are fol- [610 
lowing the instinct of self-preservation 
in himianity. 

But, no doubt, some kinds of knowledge 
cannot be made to directly serve the in- 
stinct in question, cannot be directly 
related to the sense for beauty, to the 
sense for conduct. These are instrument- 
knowledges; they lead on to other knowl- 
edges, which can. A man who passes 
his life in instrument-knowledges is [620 
a specialist. They may be invaluable as 
instruments to something beyond, for 



those who have the gift thus to employ 
them; and they may be disciplines in 
themselves wherein it is useful for every 
one to have some schooling. But it is 
inconceivable that the generality of men 
should pass all their mental life with 
Greek accents or with formal logic. My 
friend Professor Sylvester, who is [630 
one of the first mathematicians in the 
world, holds transcendental doctrines as 
to the virtue of mathematics, but those 
doctrines are not for common men. In 
the very Senate House and heart of our 
English Cambridge I once ventured, 
though not without an apology for my 
profaneness, to hazard the opinion that 
for the majority of mankind a little of 
mathematics, even, goes a long way. [640 
Of course this is quite consistent with 
their being of immense importance as an 
instrument to something else; but it is 
the few who have the aptitude for thus 
using them, not the bulk of mankind. 

The natural sciences do not, how- 
ever, stand on the same footing with 
these instrument-knowledges. Experience 
shows us that the generality of men will 
find more interest in learning that, [650 
when a taper burns, the wax is converted 
into carbonic acid and water, or in learn- 
ing the explanation of the phenomenon 
of dew, or in learning how the circula- 
tion of the blood is carried on, than they 
find in learning that the genitive plural 
of pais and pas does not take the cir- 
cumflex on the termination. And one 
piece of natural knowledge is 'added to 
another, and others are added to that, [660 
and at last we come to propositions so 
interesting as Mr. Darwin's famous prop- 
osition that "our ancestor was a hairy 
quadruped furnished with a tail and 
pointed ears, probably arboreal in his 
habits." Or we come to propositions 
of such reach and magnitude as those 
which Professor Huxley delivers, when 
he says that the notions of our forefathers 
about the beginning and the end of [670 
the world were all wrong, and that nature 
is the expression of a definite order with 
which nothing interferes. 

Interesting, indeed, these results of 
science are, important they are, and we 
should all of us be acquainted with them. 



7i6 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



But what I now wish you to mark is, 
that we are still, when they are pro- 
pounded to us and we receive them, we 
are still in the sphere of intellect and [680 
knowledge. And for the generality of 
men there will be found, I say, to arise, 
when they have duly taken in the propo- 
sition that their ancestor was "a hairy 
quadruped furnished with a tail and 
pointed ears, probably arboreal in his 
habits," there will be found to arise an 
invincible desire to relate this proposition 
to the sense in us for conduct, and to the 
sense in us for beauty. But this the [690 
men of science will not do for us, and 
will hardly even profess to do. They 
will give us other pieces of knowledge, 
other facts, about other animals and 
their ancestors, or about plants, or about 
stones, or about stars; and they may 
finally bring us to those great "general 
conceptions of the universe, which are 
forced upon us all," says Professor Huxley, 
"by the progress of physical science." [700 
But still it will be knowledge only which 
they give us ; knowledge not put for us into 
relation with our sense for conduct, our sense 
for beauty, and touched with emotion by 
being so put; not thus put for us, and 
therefore, to the majority of mankind, after 
a certain while, unsatisfying, wearying. 

Not to the born naturalist, I admit. 
But what do we mean by a born nat- 
uralist? We mean a man in whom [710 
the zeal for observing nature is so uncom- 
monly strong and eminent, that it marks 
him off from the bulk of mankind. Such 
a man will pass his life happily in collect- 
ing natural knowledge and reasoning 
upon it, and will ask for nothing, or hardly 
anything, more. I have heard it said 
that the sagacious and admirable nat- 
uralist whom we lost not very long ago, 
Mr. Darwin, once owned to a friend [720 
that for his part he did not experience 
the necessity for two things which most 
men find so necessary to them, — religion 
and poetry; science and the domestic 
affections, he thought, were enough. To 
a born naturalist, I can well understand 
that this should seem so. So absorbing 
is his occupation with nature, so strong 
his love for his occupation, that he goes 
on acquiring natural knowledge and [730 



reasoning upon it, and has little time or 
inclination for thinking about getting it 
related to the desire in man for conduct, 
the desire in man for beauty. He relates 
it to them for himself as he goes along, 
so far as he feels the need; and he draws 
from the domestic affections all the addi- 
tional solace necessary. But then Dar- 
wins are extremely rare. Another great 
and admirable master of natural [740 
knowledge, Faraday, was a Sandemanian. 
That is to say, he related his knowledge 
I to his instinct for conduct and to his 
instinct for beauty, by the aid of that 
respectable Scottish sectary, Robert 
Sandeman. And so strong, in general, is 
the demand of religion and poetry to 
have their share in a man, to associate 
themselves with his knowing, and to re- 
lieve and rejoice it, that probably, [750 
for one man amongst us with the disposi- 
tion to do as Darwin did in this respect, 
there are at least fifty with the disposition 
to do as Faraday. 

Education lays hold upon us, in fact, 
by satisfying this demand. Professor 
Huxley holds up to scorn mediaeval educa- 
tion, with its neglect of the knowledge 
of nature, its poverty even of literary 
studies, its formal logic devoted to [760 
"showing how and why that which the 
Church said was true must be true." 
But the great mediaeval universities were 
not brought into being, we may be sure, 
by the zeal for giving a jejune and con- 
temptible education. Kings have been 
their nursing fathers, and queens have 
been their nursing mothers, but not for 
this. The mediaeval universities came 
into being, because the supposed [770 
knowledge, delivered by Scripture and 
the Church, so deeply engaged men's 
hearts, by so simply, easily, and power- 
fully relating itself to their desire for con- 
duct, their desire for beauty. All other 
knowledge was dominated by this sup- 
posed knowledge and was subordinated 
to it, because of the surpassing strength 
of the hold which it gained upon the 
affections of men, by allying itself pro- [780 
foundly with their sense for conduct, 
their sense for beauty. 

But now, says Professor Huxley, con- 
ceptions of the universe fatal to the no- 



ARNOLD 



717 



tions held by our forefathers have been 
forced upon us by physical science. 
Grant to him that they are thus fatal, 
that the new conceptions must and will 
soon become current everywhere, and 
that every one will finally perceive [790 
them to be fatal to the beliefs of our fore- 
fathers. The need of humane letters, as 
they are truly called, because they serve 
the paramount desire in men that good 
should be for ever present to them, — -the 
need of humane letters to establish a rela- 
tion between the new conceptions, and 
our instinct for beauty, our instinct for 
conduct, is only the more visible. The 
Middle Age could do without humane [800 
letters, as it could do without the study 
of nature, because its supposed knowledge 
was made to engage its emotions so power- 
fully. Grant that the supposed knowl- 
edge disappears, its power of being made 
to engage the emotions will of course 
disappear along M'ith it, — but the emotions 
themselves, and their claim to be en- 
gaged and satisfied, will remain. Now 
if we find by experience that humane [810 
letters have an undeniable power of 
engaging the emotions, the importance 
of humane letters in a man's training 
becomes not less, but greater, in propor- 
tion to the success of modern science 
in extirpating what it calls "mediaeval 
thinking." 

Have humane letters, then, have poetry 
and eloquence, the power here attributed 
to them of engaging the emotions, [820 
and do they exercise it? And if they have 
it and exercise it, how do they exercise it, 
so as to exert an influence upon man's 
sense for conduct, his sense for beauty? 
Finally, even if they both can and do 
exert an influence upon the senses in 
question, how are they to relate to them 
the results, — the modern results, — of nat- 
ural science? All these questions may 
be asked. First, have poetry and elo- [830 
quence the power of calling out the emo- 
tions? The appeal is to experience. 
Experience shows that for the vast ma- 
jority of men, for mankind in general, 
they have the power. Next, do they 
exercise it? They do. But then, how 
do they exercise it so as to affect man's 
sense for conduct, his sense for beauty? 



And this is perhaps a case for applying 
the Preacher's words: "Though a [840 
man labor to seek it out, yet he shall not 
find it; yea, farther, though a wise man 
think to know it, yet shall he not be able 
to find it."^ Why should it be one thing, 
in its effect upon the emotions, to say, 
"Patience is a virtue," and quite another 
thing, in its effect upon the emotions, to 
say with Homer, 

rXrjTov yap Motpat dvfxov decav av6pwTroL(TLv — '^ 

"for an enduring heart have the des- [850 
tinies appointed to the children of men"? 
Why should it be one thing, in its effect 
upon the emotions, to say with the philos- 
opher Spinoza, Felicitas in eo consistit 
quod homo suum esse conservare potest — 
"Man's happiness consists in his being 
able to preserve his own essence," and 
quite another thing, in its effect upon the 
emotions, to say with the Gospel, "What 
is a man advantaged, if he gain [860 
the whole world, and lose himself, for- 
feit himself?" How does this difference 
of effect arise? I cannot tell, and I am 
not much concerned to know; the impor- 
tant thing is that it does arise, and that 
we can profit by it. But how, finally, 
are poetry and eloquence to exercise the 
power of relating the modern results of 
natural science to man's instinct for con- 
duct, his instinct for beauty? And here [870 
again I answer that I do not know how 
they will exercise it, but that they can and 
will exercise it I am sure. I do not mean 
that modern philosophical poets and 
modern philosophical moralists are to 
come and relate for us, in express terms, 
the results of modern scientific research 
to our instinct for conduct, our instinct 
for beauty. But I mean that we shall find, 
as a matter of experience, if we know [S8o 
the best that has been thought and uttered 
in the world, we shall find that the art 
and poetry and eloquence of men who 
lived, perhaps, long ago, who had the 
most limited natural knowledge, who 
had the most erroneous conceptions about 
many important matters, we shall find 
that this art, and poetry, and eloquence, 
have in fact not only the power of refresh- 
ing and delighting us, they have also [890 



^ Ecclcsiastes , viii, 17. 



■Iliad, xxiv, 49. 



7i8 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



the power, — such is the strength and 
worth, in essentials, of their authors' 
criticism of life, — they have a fortifying, 
and elevating, and quickening, and sug- 
gestive power, capable of wonderfully 
helping us to relate the results of modern 
science to our need for conduct, our need 
for beauty. Homer's conceptions of the 
physical universe were, I imagine, gro- 
tesque; but really, under the shock [900 
of hearing from modern science that "the 
world is not subordinated to man's use, 
and that man is not the cynosure of things 
terrestrial," I could, for my own part, 
desire no better comfort than Homer's 
line which I quoted just now, 

tAt^tov yap Motpat Ovfiov diaav av6p<i)TroL(nv — 

"for an enduring heart have the destinies 
appointed to the children of men"! 

And the more that men's minds [910 
are cleared, the more that the results of 
science are frankly accepted, the more 
that poetry and eloquence come to be 
received and studied as what in truth 
they really are, — the criticism of life by 
gifted men, alive and active with extraor- 
dinary power at an unusual niunber 
of points; — so much the more will the 
value of humane letters, and of art also, 
which is an utterance having a like [920 
kind of power with theirs, be felt and 
acknowledged, arid their place in educa- 
tion be secured. 

Let us therefore, all of us, avoid indeed 
as much as possible any invidious com- 
parison between the merits of humane 
letters, as means of education, and the 
merits of the natural sciences. But when 
some President of a Section for Me- 
chanical Science insists on making [930 
the comparison, and tells us that "he 
who in his training has substituted litera- 
ture and history for natural science has 
chosen the less useful alternative," let 
us make answer to him that the student 
of humane letters only, will, at least, 
know also the great general conceptions 
brought in by modern physical science; 
for science, as Professor Huxley says, 
forces them upon us all. But the stu- [940 
dent of the natural sciences only, will, by 
our very hypothesis, know nothing of 



! humane letters; not to mention that in 
I settmg himself to be perpetually ac- 
I cumulating natural knowledge, he sets 
! himself to do what only specialists have 
I in general the gift for doing genially. 
And so he will probably be unsatisfied, 
j or at any rate incomplete, and even more 
j incomplete than the student of hu- [950 
mane letters only. 

I once mentioned in a school-report, 
how a young man in one of our English 
training colleges having to paraphrase 
the passage in Macbeth beginning, 

"Canst thou not minister to a mind 

diseased? " 

turned this line into, "Can you not wait 
upon the lunatic?" And I remarked 
what a curious state of things it would 
be, if every pupil of our national [960 
schools knew, let us say, that the moon is 
two thousand one hundred and sixty 
miles in diameter, and thought at the 
same time that a good paraphrase for 

"Canst thou not minister to a mind 
diseased? " 

was, "Can you not wait upon the luna- 
tic? " If one is driven to choose, I think 
I would rather have a young person ig- 
norant about the moon's diameter, but 
aware that "Can you not wait upon [970 
the lunatic?" is bad, than a young person 
whose education had been such as to 
manage things the other way. 

Or to go higher than the pupils of our 
national schools. I have in my mind's 
eye a member of our British Parliament 
who comes to travel here in America, 
who afterwards relates his travels, and 
who shows a really masterly knowledge 
of the geology of this great country [980 
and of its mining capabilities, but who 
ends by gravely suggesting that the 
United States should borrow a prince 
from our Royal Family, and should make 
him their king, and should create a House 
of Lords of great landed proprietors after 
the pattern of ours; and then America, 
he thinks, would have her future happily 
and perfectly secured. Surely, in this 
case, the President of the Section for [990 



ARNOLD 



719 



Mechanical Science would himself hardly 
say that our member of Parliament, by 
concentrating himself upon geology and 
mineralogy, and so on, and not attending 
to literature and history, had "chosen the 
more useful alternative." 

If then there is to be separation and 
option between humane letters on the 
one hand, and the natural sciences on 
the other, the great majority of man- [1000 
kind, all who have not exceptional and 
overpowering aptitudes for the study of 
natiire, would do well, I cannot but think, 
to choose to be educated in humane letters 
rather than in the natural sciences. Let- 
ters will call out their being at more 
points, will make them live more. 

I said that before I ended I would just 
touch on the question of classical educa- 
tion, and I will keep my word. Even [loio 
if literature is to retain a large place in 
our education, yet Latin and Greek, say 
the friends of progress, will certainly have 
to go. Greek is the grand offender in the 
eyes of these gentlemen. The attackers 
of the estabUshed course of study think 
that against Greek, at any rate, they 
have irresistible arguments. Literature 
may perhaps be needed in education, 
they say; but why on earth should it [1020 
be Greek literature? Why not French or 
German? Nay, "has not an Englishman 
models in his own literature of every kind 
of excellence?" As before, it is not on 
any weak pleadings of my own that I rely 
for convincing the gainsayers; it is on 
the constitution of human nature itself, 
and on the instinct of self-preservation 
in humanity. The instinct for beauty is 
set in human nature, as surely as the [1030 
instinct for knowledge is set there, or the 
instinct for conduct. If the instinct for 
beauty is served by Greek literature and 
art as it is served by no other literature 
and art, we may trust to the instinct of 
self-preservation in humanity for keeping 
Greek as part of our culture. We may 
trust to it for even making the study of 
Greek more prevalent than it is now. 
Greek will come, I hope, some day [1040 
to be studied more rationally than at 
present; but it will be increasingly studied 
as men increasingly feel the need in them 
for beauty, and how powerfully Greek 



art and Greek literature can serve this 
need. Women will again study Greek, 
as Lady Jane Grey did; I believe that in 
that chain of forts, with which the fair 
host of the Amazons are now engirdling 
our English universities, I find that [1050 
here in America, in colleges like Smith 
College in Massachusetts, and Vassar 
College in the State of New York, and in 
the happy families of the mixed univer- 
sities out West, they are studying it al- 
ready. 

Dejuit una mihi symmetria prisca, — 
"The antique symmetry was the one 
thing wanting to me," said Leonardo da 
Vinci; and he was an Italian. I will [1060 
not presume to speak for the Americans, 
but I am sure that, in the Englishman, 
the want of this admirable symmetry of 
the Greeks is a thousand times more 
great and crying than in any ItaHan. 
The results of the want show themselves 
most glaringly, perhaps, in our architec- 
ture, but they show themselves, also, in 
all our art. Fit details strictly combined, 
in view of a large general result nobly [1070 
conceived; that is just the beautiful sym- 
metria prisca of the Greeks, and it is 
just where we English fail, where all our 
art fails. Striking ideas we have, and 
well-executed details we have; but that 
high symmetry which, with satisfying 
and delightful effect, combines them, we 
seldom or never have. The glorious 
beauty of the Acropolis at Athens did 
not come from single fine things [1080 
stuck about on that hill, a statue here, 
a gateway there; — no, it arose from all 
things being perfectly combined for a 
supreme total effect. What must not an 
Englishman feel about our deficiencies 
in this respect, as the sense for beauty, 
whereof this symmetry is an essential 
element, awakens and strengthens within 
him! what will not one day be his re- 
spect and desire for Greece and its [1090 
symmetria prisca, when the scales drop 
from his eyes as he walks the London 
streets, and he sees such a lesson in mean- 
ness as the Strand, for instance, in its true 
deformity! But here we are coming to 
our friend Mr. Ruskin's proWnce, and I 
will not intrude upon it, for he is its very 
sufficient guardian. 



720 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And so we at last find, it seems, we find 
flowing in favor of the humanities the [i loo 
natural and necessary stream of things, 
which seemed against them when we 
started. The "hairy quadruped furnished 
with a tail and pointed ears, probably 
arboreal in his habits," this good fellow 
carried hidden in his nature, apparently, 
something destined to develop into a 
necessity for humane letters. Nay, more; 
we seem finally to be even led to the 
further conclusion that our hairy an- [mo 
cestor carried in his nature, also, a neces- 
sity for Greek. 

And therefore, to say the truth, I can- 
not really think that humane letters are 
in much actual danger of being thrust 
out from their leading place in education, 
in spite of the array of authorities against 
them at this moment. So long as human 
nature is what it is, their attractions will 
remain irresistible. As with Greek, [1120 
so with letters generally: they will some 
day come, we may hope, to be studied 
more rationally, but they will not lose 
their place. What will happen will rather 
be that there will be crowded into educa- 
tion other matters besides, far too many; 
there will be, perhaps, a period of un- 
settlement and confusion and false ten- 
dency; but letters will not in the end 
lose their leading place. If they lose [1130 
it for a time, they will get it back again. 
We shall be brought back to them by our 
wants and aspirations. And a poor 
humanist may possess his soul in patience, 
neither strive nor cry, admit the energy 
and brilliancy of the partisans of physical 
science, and their present favor with the 
public, to be far greater than his own, 
and still have a happy faith that the 
nature of things works silently on [1140 
behalf of the studies which he loves, 
and that, while we shall all have to ac- 
quaint ourselves with the great results 
reached by modern science, and to give 
ourselves as much training in its dis- 
ciplines as we can conveniently carry, 
yet the majority of men will always re- 
quire humane letters; and so much the 
more, as they have the more and the 
greater results of science to relate [1150 
to the need in man for conduct, and to 
the need in him for beauty. 



THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY (1825-1895) 

ON THE ADVISABLENESS OF IM- 
PROVING NATURAL KNOWLEDGE 

This time two hundred years ago — in 
the beginning of January, 1666— those 
of our forefathers who inhabited this great 
and ancient city, took breath between 
the shocks of two fearful calamities: one 
not quite past, although its fury had 
abated ; the other to come. 

Within a few yards of the very spot on 
which we are assembled, so the tradition 
runs, that painful and deadly malady, [10 
the plague, appeared in the latter months 
of 1664; and, though no new visitor, 
smote the people of England, and es- 
pecially of her capital, with a violence 
unknown before, in the course of the 
following year. The hand of a master 
has pictured what happened in those 
dismal months; and in that truest of 
fictions. The History of the Plague Year, 
Defoe shows death, with every accom- [20 
paniment of pain and terror, stalking 
through the narrow streets of old London, 
and changing their busy hum into a 
silence broken only by the wailing of the 
mourners of fifty thousand dead; by the 
woful denunciations and mad prayers of 
fanatics; and by the madder yells of 
despairing profligates. 

But, about this time, in 1666, the death- 
rate had sunk to nearly its ordinary [30 
amount; a case of plague occurred only 
here and there, and the richer citizens 
who had flown from the pest had returned 
to their dwellings. The remnant of the 
people began to toil at the accustomed 
round of duty, or of pleasure; and the 
stream of city life bid fair to flow back 
along its old bed, with renewed and un- 
interrupted vigor. 

The newly-kindled hope was deceit- [40 
ful. The great plague, indeed, returned 
no more; but what it had done for the 
Londoners, the great fire, which broke out 
in the autumn of 1666, did for London; 
and, in September of that year, a heap 
of ashes and the indestructible energy 
of the people were all that remained of 
the glory of five-sixths of the city within 
the walls. 



HUXLEY 



721 



Our forefathers had their own ways [50 
of accounting for each of these calamities. 
They submitted to the plague in humility 
and in penitence, for they beheved it to 
be the judgment of God. But towards 
the fire they were furiously indignant, 
interpreting it as the effect of the malice of 
man, — as the work of the Republicans, 
or of the Papists, according as their pre- 
possessions ran in favor of loyalty or of 
Puritanism. [60 

It would, I fancy, have fared but ill 
with one who, standing where I now 
stand, in what was then a thickly-peopled 
and fashionable part of London, should 
have broached to our ancestors the doc- 
trine which I now propound to you — 
that all their hypotheses were alike 
wrong; that the plague wias no more, in 
their sense, Divine judgment, than the 
fire was the work of any political, or [70 
of any religious, sect; but that they were 
themselves the authors of both plague 
and fire, and that they must look to them- 
selves to prevent the recurrence of calami- 
ties, to all appearance so peculiarly be- 
yond the reach of human control — so 
evidently the result of the wrath of God, 
or of the craft and subtlety of an enemy. 

And one may picture to one's self how 
harmoniously the holy cursing of the [80 
Puritan of that day would have chimed 
in with the unholy cursing and the crack- 
ling wit of the Rochesters and Sedleys, 
and with the revilings of the political fa- 
natics, if my imaginary plain dealer had 
gone on to say that, if the return of such 
misfortunes were ever rendered impos- 
sible, it would not be in virtue of the vic- 
tory of the faith of Laud, or of that of 
Milton; and, as little, by the triumph [90 
of republicanism, as by that of monarchy. 
But that the one thing needful for com- 
passing this end was, that the people of 
England should second the efforts of an 
insignificant corporation, the establish- 
ment of which, a few years before the 
epoch of the great plague and the great 
fire, had been as little noticed, as they 
were conspicuous. 

Some twenty years before the out- [100 
break of the plague a few calm and 
thoughtful students banded themselves 



together for the purpose, as they phrased 
it, of "improving natural knowledge." 
The ends they proposed to attain cannot 
be stated more clearly than in the words of 
one of the founders of the organisation: — 

"Our business was (precluding matters 
of theology and state affairs) to discourse 
and consider of philosophical en- [no 
quiries, and such as related thereunto: — • 
as Physick, Anatomy, Geometry, As- 
tronomy, Navigation, Staticks, Magnet- 
icks, Chymicks, Mechanicks, and Nat- 
ural Experiments; with the state of these 
studies and their cultivation at home and 
abroad. We then discoursed of the circu- 
lation of the blood, the valves in the 
veins, the venae lacteae, the lymphatic 
vessels, the Copernican hypothesis, [120 
the nature of comets and new stars, the 
satellites of Jupiter, the oval shape (as 
it then appeared) of Saturn, the spots on 
the sun and its turning on its own axis, 
the inequalities and selenography of the 
moon, the several phases of Venus and 
Mercury, the improvement of telescopes 
and grinding of glasses for that purpose, 
the weight of air, the possibility or im- 
possibility of vacuities and nature's [130 
abhorrence thereof, the Torricellian ex- 
periment in quicksilver, the descent of 
heavy bodies and the degree of accelera- 
tion therein, with divers other things of 
like nature, some of which were then but 
new discoveries, and others not so gen- 
erally known and embraced as now they 
are; with other things appertaining to 
what hath been called the New Philos- 
ophy, which from the times of Galileo [140 
at Florence, and Sir Francis Bacon (Lord 
Verulam) in England, hath been much 
cultivated in Italy, France, Germany, 
and other parts abroad, as well as with 
us in England." 

The learned Dr. Wallis, writing in 1696, 
narrates in these words what happened 
half a century before, or about 1645. 
The associates met at Oxford, in the rooms 
of Dr. Wilkins, who was destined to [150 
become a bishop; and subsequently com- 
ing together in London, they attracted 
the notice of the king. And it is a 
strange e\adence of the taste for knowledge 
which the most ob\-iousIy worthless of the 
Stuarts shared with his father and grand- 



722 



TEE VICTORIAN AGE 



father, that Charles the Second was not 
content with saying witty things about 
his philosophers, but did wise things with 
regard to them. For he not only be- [i6o 
stowed upon them such attention as he 
could spare from his poodles and his 
mistresses, but, being in his usual state 
of impecuniosity, begged for them of the 
Duke of Ormond; and, that step being 
without effect, gave them Chelsea Col- 
lege, a charter, and a mace: crowning his 
favors in the best way they could be 
crowned, by burdening them no further 
with royal patronage or state inter- [170 
ference. 

Thus it was that the half-dozen young 
men, studious of the "New Philosophy," 
who met in one another's lodgings in 
Oxford or in London, in the middle of 
the seventeenth century, grew in numer- 
ical and in real strength, until, in its latter 
part, the "Royal Society for the Improve- 
ment of Natural Knowledge" had already 
become famous, and had acquired a [180 
claim upon the veneration of English- 
men, which it has ever since retained, as 
the principal focus of scientific activity 
in our islands, and the chief champion of 
the cause it was formed to support. 

It was by the aid of the Royal Society 
that Newton published his Principia. If 
all the books in the world, except the Phil- 
osophical Transactions, were destroyed, 
it is safe to say that the founda- [190 
tions of physical science would remain 
unshaken, and that the vast intellectual 
progress of the last two centuries would 
be largely, though incompletely, recorded. 
Nor have any signs of halting or of de- 
crepitude manifested themselves in our 
own times. As in Dr. Wallis's days, so 
in these, "our business is, precluding 
theology and state affairs, to discourse 
and consider of philosophical en- [200 
quiries." But our " Mathematick " is 
one which Newton would have to go to 
school to learn; our "Staticks, Mechan- 
icks, Magneticks, Chymicks, and Nat- 
ural Experiments" constitute a mass of 
physical and chemical knowledge, a 
glimpse at which would compensate 
Galileo for the doings of a score of in- 
quisitorial cardinals, our "Physick" and 
"Anatomy" have embraced such [210 



infinite varieties of being, have laid open 
such new worlds in time and space, have 
grappled, not unsuccessfully, with such 
complex problems, that the eyes of Vesa- 
lius and of Harvey might be dazzled by 
the sight of the tree that has grown out 
of their grain of mustard seed. 

The fact is perhaps rather too much, 
than too little, forced upon one's notice, 
nowadays, that all this marvellous [220 
intellectual growth has a no less wonder- 
ful expression in practical life; and that, 
in this respect, if in no other, the move- 
ment symbolized by the progress of the 
Royal Society stands without a parallel 
in the history of mankind. 

A series of volumes as bulky as the 
Transactions of the Royal Society might 
possibly be filled with the subtle specula- 
tions of the Schoolmen; not improb- [230 
ably the obtaining a mastery over the 
products of mediaeval thought might 
necessitate an even greater expenditure 
of time and of energy than the acquire- 
ment of the "New Philosophy"; but 
though such work engrossed the best 
intellects of Europe for a longer time than 
has elapsed since the great fire, its effects 
were "writ in water," so far as our social 
i state is concerned. [240 

I On the other hand, if the noble first 
President of the Royal Society could re- 
visit the upper air and once more gladden 
his eyes with a sight of the familiar mace, 
he would find himself in the midst of a 
material civilization more different from 
that of his day, than that of the seven- 
teenth was from that of the first century. 
And if Lord Broun cker's native saga- 
city had not deserted his ghost, he [250 
would need no long reflection to discover 
that all these great ships, these railways, 
these telegraphs, these factories, these 
printing-presses, without which the whole 
fabric of modern English society would 
collapse into a mass of stagnant and 
starving pauperism, — that all these pillars 
of our State are but the ripples and the 
bubbles upon the surface of that great 
spiritual stream, the springs of which [260 
only, he and his fellows were privileged to 
see; and seeing, to recognize as that 
which it behoved them above all things 
to keep pure and undefiled. 



HUXLEY 



723 



It may not be too great a flight of im- 
agination to conceive our noble revenant 
not forgetful of the great troubles of his 
own day, and anxious to know how often 
London had been burned down since his 
time, and how often the plague had [270 
carried off its thousands. He would have 
to learn that, although London contains 
tenfold the inflammable matter that it 
did in 1666; though, not content with 
filling our rooms with woodwork and 
light draperies, we must needs lead in- 
flammable and explosive gases into every 
corner of our streets and houses, we never 
allow even a street to burn down. And 
if he asked how this had come about, [280 
we should have to explain that the im- 
provement of natural knowledge has fur- 
nished us with dozens of machines for 
throwing water upon fires, any one of 
which would have furnished the ingenious 
Mr. Hooke, the first "curator and ex- 
perimenter" of the Royal Society, with 
ample materials for discourse before half 
a dozen meetings of that body; and that, 
to say truth, except for the progress [290 
of natura,l knowledge, we should not have 
been able to make even the tools by which 
these machines are constructed. And, 
further, it would be necessary to add, 
that although severe fires sometimes oc- 
cur and inflict great damage, the loss is 
very generally compensated by societies, 
the operations of which have been ren- 
dered possible only by the progress of 
natural knowledge in the direction of [300 
mathematics, and the accumulation of 
wealth in virtue of other natural knowl- 
edge. 

But the plague? My Lord Brouncker's 
observation would not, I fear, lead him 
to think that Englishmen of the nine- 
teenth century are purer in life, or more 
fervent in religious faith, than the genera- 
tion which could produce a Boyle, an 
Evelyn, and a Milton. He might [310 
find the mud of society at the bottom, 
instead of at the top, but I fear that the 
sum total would be as deserving of swift 
judgment as at the time of the Restora- 
tion. And it would be our duty to ex- 
plain once more, and this time not with- 
out shame, that we have no reason to 
believe that it is the improvement of 



our faith, nor that of our morals, which 
keeps the plague from our city; but, [320 
again, that it is the improvement of our 
natural knowledge. 

We have learned that pestilences will 
only take up their abode among those 
who have prepared unswept and ungar- 
nished residences for them. Their cities 
must have narrow, unwatered streets, 
foul with accumulated garbage. Their 
houses must be ill-drained, ill-lighted, 
ill-ventflated. Their subjects must [330 
be ill-washed, ill-fed, ill-clothed. The 
London of 1655 was such a city. The 
cities of the East, where plague has an 
enduring dwelling, are such cities. We, 
in later times, have learned somewhat of 
Nature, and partly obey her. Because 
of this partial improvement of our natu- 
ral knowledge and of that fractional 
obedience, we have no plague; because 
that knowledge is still very imperfect [340 
and that obedience yet incomplete, ty- 
phoid is our companion and cholera our 
visitor. But it is not presumptuous to 
express the belief that, when our knowl- 
edge is more complete and our obedience 
the expression of our knowledge, London 
will count her centuries of freedom from 
typhoid and cholera, as she now grate- 
fully reckons her two hundred years of ig- 
norance of that plague which swooped [350 
upon her thrice in the first half of the 
seventeenth century. 

Surely, there is nothing in these ex- 
planations which is not fully borne out 
by the facts? Surely, the principles 
involved in them are now admitted among 
the fixed beliefs of all thinking men? 
Surely, it is true that our countrymen 
are less subject to fire, famine, pestilence, 
and all the evils which result from a [360 
want of command over and due antici- 
pation of the course of Nature, than 
were the countrymen of Milton; and 
health, wealth, and well-being are more 
abundant with us than with them? But 
no less certainly is the difference due to 
the improvement of our knowledge of 
Nature, and the extent to which that 
improved knowledge has been incor- 
porated A\ith the household words of [370 
men, and has supplied the springs of their 
daily actions. 



724 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Granting for a moment, then, the truth 
of that which the depreciators of natural 
knowledge are so fond of urging, that its 
improvement can only add to the resources 
of our material civilization; admitting it 
to be possible that the founders of the 
Royal Society themselves looked for no 
other reward than this, I cannot con- [380 
fess that I was guilty of exaggeration 
when I hinted, that to him who had the 
gift of distinguishing between prominent 
events and important events, the origin 
of a combined effort on the part of man- 
kind to improve natural knowledge might 
have loomed larger than the Plague and 
have outshone the glare of the Fire; as 
a something fraught with a wealth of 
beneficence to mankind, in compari- [390 
son with which the damage done by those 
ghastly evils would shrink into insignifi- 
cance. 

It is very certain that for every victim 
slain by the plague, hundreds of mankind 
exist and find a fair share of happiness in 
the world by the aid of the spinning jenny. 
And the great fire, at its worst, could not 
have burned the supply of coal, the daily 
working of which, in the bowels of the [400 
earth, made possible by the steam pump, 
gives rise to an amount of wealth to which 
the millions lost in old London are but as 
an old song. 

But spinning jenny and steam pump 
are, after all, but toys, possessing an acci- 
dental value; and natural knowledge creates 
multitudes of more subtle contrivances, 
the praises of which do not happen to be 
sung because they are not directly con- [410 
vertible into instruments for creating 
wealth. When I contemplate natural 
knowledge squandering such gifts among 
men, the only appropriate comparison I 
can find for her is, to liken her to such a 
peasant woman as one sees in the Alps, 
striding ever upward, heavily burdened, 
and with mind bent only on her home; but 
yet without effort and without thought, 
knitting for her children. Now stock- [420 
ings are good and comfortable things, and 
the children will undoubtedly be much 
the better for them; but surely it would 
be short-sighted, to say the least of it, to 
depreciate this toiling mother as a mere 



stocking-machine — a mere provider of phys- 
ical comforts? 

However, there are blind leaders of the 
blind, and not a few of them, who take 
this view of natural knowledge, and [430 
can see nothing in the bountiful mother of 
humanity but a sort of comfort-grinding 
machine. According to them, the improve- 
ment of natural knowledge always has 
been, and always must be, synonymous 
with no more than the improvement of 
the material resources and the increase of 
the gratifications of men. 

Natural knowledge is, in their eyes, no 
real mother of mankind, bringing [440 
them up with kindness, and, if need be, 
with sternness, in the way they should go, 
and instructing them in all things needful 
for their welfare; but a sort of fairy god- 
mother, ready to furnish her pets with 
shoes of swiftness, swords of sharpness, and 
omnipotent Aladdin's lamps, so that they 
may have telegraphs to Saturn, and see 
the other side of the moon, and thank 
God they are better than their be- [450 
nighted ancestors. 

If this talk were true, I, for one, should 
not greatly care to toil in the service of 
natural knowledge. I think I would just 
as soon be quietly chipping my own flint 
axe, after the manner of my forefathers a 
few thousand years back, as be troubled 
with the endless malady of thought which 
now infests us all, for such reward. But 
I venture to say that such views are [460 
contrary alike to reason and to fact. Those 
who discourse in such fashion seem to me 
to be so intent upon trying to see what is 
above Nature, or what is behind her, that 
they are blind to what stares them in the 
face in her. 

I should not venture to speak thus 
strongly if my justification were not to be 
found in the simplest and most obvious 
facts, — if it needed more than an ap- [470 
peal to the most notorious truths to justify 
my assertion, that the improvement of 
natural knowledge, whatever direction it 
has taken, and however low the aims of 
those who may have commenced it — has 
not only conferred practical benefits on 
men, but, in so doing, has effected a revolu- 
tion in their conceptions of the universe 
and of themselves, and has profoundly 



HUXLEY 



725 



altered their modes of thinking and [480 
their views of right and wrong. I say 
that natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy 
natural wants, has found the ideas which 
can alone still spiritual cravings. I say 
that natural knowledge, in desiring to 
ascertain the laws of comfort, has been 
driven to discover those of conduct, and 
to lay the foimdations of a new moral- 
ity. 

Let us take these points separately; [490 
and first, what great ideas has natural 
knowledge introduced into men's minds? 

I cannot but think that the foundations 
of all natural knowledge were laid when 
the reason of man first came face to face 
with the facts of Nature; when the savage 
first learned that the fingers of one hand 
are fewer than those of both; that it is 
shorter to cross a stream than to head it; 
that a stone stops where it is unless [500 
it be moved, and that it drops from the 
hand which lets it go; that light and heat 
come and go with the sun ; that sticks burn 
away in a fire; that plants and animals 
grow and die; that if he struck his fellow 
savage a blow he would make him angry, 
ai)d perhaps get a blow in return, while if 
he offered him a fruit he would please 
him, and perhaps receive a fish in exchange. 
When men had acquired this much [510 
knowledge, the outlines, rude though they 
were, of mathematics, of physics, of chemis- 
try, of biology, of moral, economical, and 
poHtical science, were sketched. Nor did 
the germ of religion fail when science 
began to bud. Listen to words which, 
though new, are yet three thousand years 
old:- 

"... When in heaven the stars about the 

moon 
Look beautiful, when all the -^dnds are 

laid, [520 

And every height comes out, and jutting 

peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
Shine, and the shepherd gladdens in his 

heart." ^ 

If the half savage Greek could share our 
feelings thus far, it is irrational to doubt 

' Need it be said that this is Tennyson's English for Homer's 
Greek? [Huxley] 



that he went further, to find as we do, that 
upon that brief gladness there follows a 
certain sorrow, — the little light of awak- 
ened human intelligence shines so mere [530 
a spark amidst the abyss of the unknown 
and unknowable; seems so insufiicient to 
do more than illuminate the imperfections 
that cannot be remedied, the aspirations 
that cannot be realized, of man's own na- 
ture. But in this sadness, this conscious- 
ness of the limitation of man, this sense of 
an open secret which he cannot penetrate, 
lies the essence of all religion; and the at- 
tempt to embody it in the forms fur- [540 
nished by the intellect is the origin of the 
higher theologies. 

Thus it seems impossible to imagine but 
that the foundations of all knowledge — 
secular or sacred — were laid when intelU- 
gence dawned, though the superstructure 
remained for long ages so slight and feeble 
as to be compatible with the existence of 
almost any general view respecting the 
mode of governance of the universe. [550 
No doubt, from the first, there were cer- 
tain phenomena which, to the rudest mind, 
presented a constancy of occurrence, and 
suggested that a fixed order ruled, at any 
rate, among them. I doubt if the grossest 
of Fetish worshippers ever imagined that a 
stone must have a god within it to make it 
fall, or that a fruit had a god within it to 
make it taste sweet. With regard to such 
matters as these, it is hardly question- [560 
able that mankind from the first took 
strictly positive and scientific views. 

But, with respect to all the less familiar 
occurrences which present themselves, un- 
cultured man, no doubt, has always taken 
himself as the standard of comparison, as 
the centre and measure of the world; nor 
could he well avoid doing so. And finding 
that his apparently uncaused will has a 
powerful effect in giA'ing rise to many [570 
occurrences, he naturally enough ascribed 
other and greater events to other and 
greater volitions, and came to look upon 
the world and all that therein is, as the 
product of the volitions of persons like 
himself, but stronger, and capable of being 
appeased or angered, as he himself might 
be soothed or irritated. Through such 
conceptions of the plan and working of 
the universe all mankind have passed, [580 



726 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



or are passing. And we may now consider 
what has been the efifect of the improvement 
of natural knowledge on the views of men 
who have reached this stage, and who have 
begun to cultivate natural knowledge with 
no desire but that of "increasing God's 
honor and bettering man's estate." 

For example, what could seem wiser, 
from a mere material point of view, more 
innocent, from a theological one, to [590 
an ancient people, than that they should 
learn the exact succession of the seasons, 
as warnings for their husbandmen; or the 
position of the stars, as guides to their 
rude navigators? But what has grown out 
of this search for natural knowledge of so 
merely useful a character? You all know 
the reply. Astronomy, — which of all 
sciences has filled men's minds with gen- 
eral ideas of a character most foreign [600 
to their daily experience, and has, more 
than any other, rendered it impossible for 
them to accept the beliefs of their fathers. 
Astronomy, — which tells them that this 
so vast and seemingly solid earth is but 
an atom among atoms, whirling, no man 
knows whither, through illimitable space; 
which demonstrates that what we call the 
peaceful heaven above us, is but that space, 
filled by an infinitely subtle matter [610 
whose particles are seething and surging, 
like the waves of an angry sea ; which opens 
up to us infinite regions where nothing is 
known, or ever seems to have been known, 
but matter and force, operating according 
to rigid rules; which leads us to contem- 
plate phenomena the very nature of which 
demonstrates that they must have had 
a beginning, and that they must have an 
end, but the very nature of which also [620 
proves that the beginning was, to our con- 
ceptions of time, infinitely remote, and 
that the end is as immeasurably distant. 

But it is not alone those who pursue 
astronomy who ask for bread and receive 
ideas. What more harmless than the 
attempt to lift and distribute water by 
pumping it; what more absolutely and 
grossly utilitarian? Yet out of pumps 
grew the discussions about Nature's [630 
abhorrence of a vacuum; and then it was 
discovered that Nature does not abhor a 
vacuum, but that air has weight; and 
that notion paved the way for the doc- 



trine that all matter has weight, and that 
the force which produces weight is co- 
extensive with the universe, — in short, 
to the theory of universal gravitation 
and endless force. While learning how 
to handle gases led to the discovery of [640 
oxygen, and to modern chemistry, and 
to the notion of the indestructibility of 
matter. 

Again, what simpler, or more absolutely 
practical, than the attempt to keep the 
axle of a wheel from heating when the 
wheel turns around very fast? How useful 
for carters and gig drivers to know some- 
thing about this; and how good were it, 
if any ingenious person would find out [650 
the cause of such phenomena, and thence 
educe a general remedy for them. Such 
an ingenious person was Count Rumford; 
and he and his successors have landed us 
in the theory of the persistence, or inde- 
structibility, of force. And in the infinitely 
minute, as in the infinitely great, the 
seekers after natural knowledge of the 
kinds called physical and chemical, have 
everywhere found a definite order and [660 
succession of events which seem never to 
be infringed. 

And how has it fared with "Physick-" 
and Anatomy? Have the anatomist, the 
physiologist, or the physician, whose 
business it has been to devote themselves 
assiduously to that eminently practical 
and direct end, the alleviation of the 
sufferings of mankind, — have they been 
able to confine their vision more ab- [670 
solutely to the strictly useful? I fear 
they are the worst offenders of all. For 
if the astronomer has set before us the 
infinite magnitude of space, and the prac- 
tical eternity of the duration of the uni- 
verse; if the physical and chemical 
philosophers have demonstrated the in- 
finite minuteness of its constituent parts, 
and the practical eternity of matter and 
of force; and if both have alike pro- [680 
claimed the universality of a definite and 
predicable order and succession of events, 
the workers in biology have not only ac- 
cepted all these, but have added more 
startling theses of their own. For, as 
the astronomers discover in the earth no 
centre of the universe, but an eccentric 
speck, so- the naturalists find man to be 



HUXLEY 



727 



no centre of the living world, but one 
amidst endless modifications of life; [690 
and as the astronomer observes the mark 
of practically endless time set upon the 
arrangements of the solar system, so the 
student of life finds the records of ancient 
forms of existence peopling the world for 
ages, which, in relation to human expe- 
rience, are infinite. 

Furthermore, the physiologist finds life 
to be as dependent for its manifestation on 
particular molecular arrangements as [700 
any physical or chemical phenomenon; and 
wherever he extends his researches, fixed or- 
der and unchanging causation reveal them- 
selves, as plainly as in the rest of Nature. 

Nor can I find that any other fate has 
awaited the germ of Religion. Arising, 
like all other kinds of knowledge, out of 
the action and interaction of man's mind, 
with that which is not man's mind, it 
has taken the intellectual coverings of [710 
Fetishism or Polytheism; of Theism or 
Atheism; of Superstition or Rationalism. 
With these, and their relative merits and 
demerits, I have nothing to do; but this 
it is needful for my purpose to say, that 
if the religion of the present differs from 
that of the past, it is because the theology 
of the present has become more scientific 
than that of the past; because it has not 
only renounced idols of wood and [720 
idols of stone, but begins to see the neces- 
sity of breaking in pieces the idols built 
up of books and traditions and finespun ec- 
clesiastical cobwebs: and of cherishing the 
noblest and most human of man's emotions, 
by worship "for the most part of the silent 
sort" at the altar of the Unknown. 

Such are a few of the new conceptions 
implanted in our minds by the improve- 
ment of natural knowledge. Men [730 
have acquired the ideas of the practically 
infinite extent of the universe and of its 
practical eternity; they are familiar with 
the conception that our earth is but an 
infinitesimal fragment of that part of the 
universe which can be seen; and that, 
nevertheless, its duration is, as compared 
wdth our standards of time, infinite. They 
have further acquired the idea that 
man is but one of innumerable forms [740 
of life now existing on the globe, and that 
the present existences are but the last of 



an immeasurable series of predecessors. 
Moreover, every step they have made in 
natural knowledge has tended to extend 
and rivet in their minds the conception 
of a definite order of the universe — which 
is embodied in what are called, by an un- 
happy metaphor, the laws of Nature — and 
to narrow the range and loosen the [750 
force of men's belief in spontaneity, or 
in changes other than such as arise out 
of that definite order itself. 

Whether these ideas are well or ill 
founded is not the question. No one 
can deny that they exist, and have been 
the inevitable outgrowth of the improve- 
ment of natural knowledge. And if so, it 
cannot be doubted that they are changing 
the form of men's most cherished and [760 
most important convictions. 

And as regards the second point — the 
extent to which the improvement of 
natural knowledge has remodelled and 
altered what may be termed the intel- 
lectual ethics of men, — what are among the 
moral convictions most fondly held by 
barbarous and semi-barbarous people? 

They are the convictions that authority 
is the soundest basis of behef; that [770 
merit attaches to a readiness to believe; 
that the doubting disposition is a bad one, 
and scepticism a sin; that when good au- 
thority has pronounced what is to be 
believed, and faith has accepted it, reason 
has no further duty. There are many ex- 
cellent persons who yet hold by these 
principles, and it is not my present busi- 
ness, or intention, to discuss their views. 
All I wish to bring clearly before your [780 
minds is the unquestionable fact, that the 
improvement of natural knowledge is ef- 
fected by methods which directly gi\'e the 
lie to all these convictions, and assume 
the exact reverse of each to be true. 

The improver of natural knowledge 
absolutely refuses to acknowledge au- 
thority, as such. For him, scepticism is 
the highest of duties; blind faith the one 
unpardonable sin. And it cannot be [790 
otherAvise, for every great advance in 
natural knowledge has involved the ab- 
solute rejection of authority, the cherish- 
ing of the keenest scepticism, the annihila- 
tion of the spirit of blind faith; and the 



728 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



most ardent votary of science holds his 
firmest convictions, not because the men 
he most venerates hold them ; not because 
their verity is testified by portents and 
wonders; but because his experience [800 
teaches him that whenever he chooses 
to bring these convictions into contact 
with their primary source, Nature — 
whenever he thinks fit to test them by 
appealing to experiment and to observa- 
tion — Nature will confirm them. The man 
of science has learned to believe in justi- 
fication, not by faith, but by verification. 

Thus, without for a moment pretend- 
ing to despise the practical results of [810 
improvement of natural knowledge, and 
its beneficial influence on material civiliza- 
tion, it must, I think, be admitted that 
the great ideas, some of which I have 
indicated, and the ethical spirit which 
I have endeavored to sketch, in the few 
moments w^hich remained at my disposal, 
constitute the real and permanent sig- 
nificance of natural knowledge. 

If these ideas be destined, as I be- [820 
lieve they are, to be more and more firmly 
established as the world grows older; 
if that spirit be fated, as I believe it is, 
to extend itself into all departments 
of human thought, and to become co- 
extensive with the range of knowledge; 
if, as our race approaches its maturity, it 
discovers, as I believe it will, that there 
is but one kind of knowledge and but one 
method of acquiring it; then we, who [830 
are still children, may justly feel it our 
highest duty to recognize the advisable- 
ness of improving natural knowledge, and 
so to aid ourselves and our successors 
in our course towards the noble goal 
which lies before mankind. 



JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 
(1801-1890) 

THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 

DISCOURSE VI 
KNOWLEDGE VIEWED IN RELATION TO 

LEARNING 

It were well if the English, like the 
Greek language, possessed some definite 
word to express, simply and generally, 
intellectual proficiency or perfection, such 



as "health," as used with reference to 
the animal frame, and "virtue," with 
reference to our moral nature. I am not 
able to find such a term; — talent, ability, 
genius, belong distinctly to the raw ma- 
terial, which is the subject-matter, [10 
not to that excellence which is the result 
of exercise and training. When we turn, 
indeed, to the particular kinds of intel- 
lectual perfection, words are forthcoming 
for our purpose, as, for instance, judg- 
ment, taste, and skill; yet even these 
belong, for the most part, to powers or 
habits bearing upon practice or upon art, 
and not to any perfect condition of the 
intellect, considered in itself. Wisdom, [20 
again, is certainly a more comprehensive 
word than any other, but it has a direct 
relation to conduct, and to human life. 
Knowledge, indeed, and science, express 
purely intellectual ideas, but still not a 
state or quality of the intellect; for knowl- 
edge, in its ordinary sense, is but one of 
its circumstances, denoting a possession 
or a habit; and science has been appro- 
priated to the subject-matter of the [30 
intellect, instead of belonging in EngHsh, 
as it ought to do, to the intellect itself. 
The consequence is that, on an occasion 
like this, many words are necessary, in 
order, first, to bring out and convey what 
surely is no difficult idea in itself, — that of 
the cultivation of the intellect as an end; 
next, in order to recommend what surely 
is no unreasonable object; and lastly, to 
describe and make the mind realize [40 
the particular perfection in which that 
object consists. Every one knows prac- 
tically what are the constituents of health 
or of virtue; and every one recognizes 
health and virtue as ends to be pursued; 
it is otherwise with intellectual excel- 
lence, and this must be my excuse, if I 
seem to anyone to be bestowing a good 
deal of labor on a preliminary matter. 

In default of a recognized term, I [50 
have called the perfection or virtue of 
the intellect by the name of philosophy, 
philosophical knowledge, enlargement of 
mind, or illumination; terms which are 
not uncommonly given to it by writers 
of this day: but, whatever name we be- 
stow on it, it is, I believe, as a matter 
of history, the business of a universit}^ 



NEWMAN 



729 



to make this intellectual culture its di- 
rect scope, or to employ itself in the [60 
education of the intellect, — just as the 
work of a hospital lies in healing the sick 
or wounded, of a riding or fencing school, 
or of a gymnasium, in exercising the 
limbs, of an almshouse, in aiding and 
solacing the old, of an orphanage, in 
protecting innocence, of a penitentiary, 
in restoring the guilty. I say, a univer- 
sity, taken in its bare idea, and before 
we view it as an instrument of the [70 
church, has this object and this mission; 
it contemplates neither moral impression 
nor mechanical production; it professes 
to exercise the mind neither in art nor in 
duty; its function is intellectual culture; 
here it may leave its scholars, and it has 
done its work when it has done as much 
as this. It educates the intellect to reason 
well in all matters, to reach out towards 
truth, and to grasp it. [80 

This, I said in my foregoing discourse, 
was the object of a university, viewed in 
itself, and apart from the Catholic Church, 
or from the state, or from any other 
power which may use it; and I illustrated 
this in various ways. I said that the 
intellect must have an excellence of its 
own, for there was nothing which had not 
its specific good; that the word "educate" 
would not be used of intellectual cul- [90 
ture, as it is used, had not the intellect 
had an end of its own; that, had it not 
such an end, there would be no meaning 
in calling certain intellectual exercises 
"liberal," in contrast with "useful," as 
is commonly done; that the very notion 
of a philosophical temper implied it, for 
it thre-." us back upon research and sys- 
tem as ends in themselves, distinct from 
effects and works of any kind; that a [100 
philosophical scheme of knowledge, or 
system of sciences, could not, from the 
nature of the case, issue in any one 
definite art or pursuit, as its end; and 
that, on the other hand, the discovery and 
contemplation of truth, to which research 
and systematizing led, were surely suf- 
ficient ends, though nothing beyond them 
were added, and that they had ever been 
accounted sufficient by mankind. [no 

Here then I take up the subject; and, 
having determined that the cultivation 



of the intellect is an end distinct and 
sufficient in itself, and that, so far as 
words go, it is an enlargement or illumi- 
nation, I proceed to inquire what this 
mental breath, or power, or light, or phi- 
losophy consists in. A hospital heals a 
broken limb or cures a fever: what does 
an institution effect, which professes [120 
the health, not of the body, not of the 
soul, but of the intellect? What is this 
good, which in former times, as well as 
our own, has been found worth the notice, 
the appropriation, of the Cathohc Church? 



I suppose the prima-facie view which 
the public at large would take of a uni- 
versity, considering it as a place of educa- 
tion, is nothing more or less than a place 
for acquiring a great deal of knowl- [130 
edge on a great many subjects. Memory 
is one of the first developed of the men- 
tal faculties; a boy's business when he 
goes to school is to learn, that is, to store 
up things in his memory. For some years 
his intellect is little more than an instru- 
ment for taking in facts, or a receptacle 
for storing them; he welcomes them as 
fast as they come to him ; he lives on what 
is without; he has his eyes ever about [140 
him; he has a lively susceptibility of 
impressions; he imbibes information of 
every kind;' and little does he make his 
own in a true sense of the word, li\'ing 
rather upon his neighbors all around 
him. He has opinions, religious, political 
and literary, and, for a boy, is very posi- 
tive in them and sure about them; but he 
gets them from his schoolfellows, or his 
masters, or his parents, as the case [150 
may be. Such as he is in his other rela- 
tions, such also is he in his school exer- 
cises; his mind is observant, sharp, ready, 
retentive; he is almost passive in the 
acquisition of knowledge. I say this in 
no disparagement of the idea of a clever 
boy. Geography, chronolog}', histor}-, 
language, natural history, he heaps up 
the matter of these studies as treasures 
for a future day. It is the seven [160 
years of plenty with him: he gathers in 
by handfuls, like the Egyptians, without 
counting; and though, as time goes on, 
there is exercise for his argumentative 



no 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



powers in the elements of mathematics, 
and for his taste in the poets and orators, 
still, while at school, or at least till quite 
the last years of his time, he acquires, 
and little more; and when he is leaving 
for the university, he is mainly the [170 
creature of foreign influences and circum- 
stances, and made up of accidents, homo- 
geneous or not, as the case may be. 
Moreover, the moral habits, which are 
a boy's praise, encourage and assist this 
result; that is, diligence, assiduity, regu- 
larity, despatch, persevering application; 
for these are the direct conditions of ac- 
quisition, and naturally lead to it. Ac- 
quirements, again, are emphatically [180 
producible, and at a moment; they are a 
something to show, both for master and 
scholar; an audience, even though igno- 
rant themselves of the subjects of an 
examination, can comprehend when ques- 
tions are answered and when they are 
not. Here again is a reason why mental 
culture is in the minds of men identified 
with the acquisition of knowledge. 

The same notion possesses the [190 
public mind, when it passes on from the 
thought of a school to that of a university: 
and with the best of reasons so far as this, 
that there is no true culture without 
acquirements, and that philosophy pre- 
supposes knowledge. It requires a great 
deal of reading, or a wide range of in- 
formation, to warrant us in putting forth 
our opinions on any serious subject; and 
without such learning the most ori- [200 
ginal mind may be able indeed to dazzle, 
to amuse, to refute, to perplex, but not to 
come to any useful result or any trust- 
worthy conclusion. There are indeed 
persons who profess a different view of 
the matter, and even act upon it. Every 
now and then you will find a person of 
vigorous or fertile mind, who relies upon 
his own resources, despises all former 
authors, and gives the world, with [210 
the utmost fearlessness, his views upon 
religion, or history, or any other popular 
subject. And his works may sell for a 
while; he may get a name in his day; but 
this will be all. His readers are sure to 
find on the long run that his doctrines are 
mere theories, and not the expression of 
facts, that they are chaff instead of bread. 



and then his popularity drops as suddenly 
as it rose. [220 

Knowledge, then, is the indispensable 
condition of expansion of mind, and the 
instrument of attaining to it; this can- 
not be denied; it is ever to be insisted on; 
I begin with it as a first principle; how- 
ever, the very truth of it carries men too 
far, and confirms to them the notion that 
it is the whole of the matter. A narrow 
mind is thought to be that which contains 
little knowledge; and an enlarged [230 
mind, that which holds a great deal; and 
what seems to put the matter beyond 
dispute is the fact of the great number of 
studies which are pursued in a university, 
by its very profession. Lectures are 
given on every kind of subject; examina- 
tions are held; prizes awarded. There 
are moral, metaphysical, physical pro- 
fessors; professors of languages, of his- 
tory, of mathematics, of experimental [240 
science. Lists of questions are published, 
wonderful for their range and depth, vari- 
ety and difficulty; treatises are written," 
which carry upon their very face the evi- 
dence of extensive reading or multifarious 
information; what then is wanting for 
mental culture to a person of large read- 
ing and scientific attainments? what is 
grasp of mind but acquirement? where 
shall philosophical repose be found, [250 
but in the consciousness and enjoyment 
of large intellectual possessions? 

And yet this notion is, I conceive, a 
mistake, and my present business is to 
show that it is one, and that the end of 
a liberal education is not mere knowl- 
edge, or knowledge considered in its 
matter; and I shall best attain my object, 
by actually setting down some cases, 
which will be generally granted to be [260 
instances of the process of enlightenment 
or enlargement of mind, and others which 
are not, and thus, by the comparison, you 
will be able to judge for yourselves, gen-, 
tlemen, whether knowledge, that is, ac- 
quirement, is after all the real principle 
of the enlargement, or whether that prin- 
ciple is not rather something beyond it. 

For instance, let a person, whose ex- 
perience has hitherto been confined [270 
to the more calm and unpretending 
scenery of these islands, whether here or 



NEWMAN 



731 



in England, go for the first time into 
parts where physical nature puts on her 
wilder and more awful forms, whether 
at home or abroad, as into mountainous 
districts; or let one, who has ever lived in 
a quiet village, go for the first time to a 
great metropolis, — then I suppose he will 
have a sensation which perhaps he [280 
never had before. He has a feeling not in 
addition or increase of former feelings, 
but of something different in its nature. 
He will perhaps be borne forward, and 
find for a time that he has lost his bear- 
ings. He has made a certain progress, 
and he has a consciousness of mental 
enlargement; he does not stand where he 
did, he has a new center, and a range of 
thoughts to which he was before a [290 
stranger. 

Again, the view of the heavens which 
the telescope opens upon us, if allowed 
to fill and possess the mind, may almost 
whirl it around and make it dizzy. It 
brings in a flood of ideas, and is rightly 
called an intellectual enlargement, what- 
ever is meant by the term. 

And so again, the sight of beasts of prey 
and other foreign animals, their [300 
strangeness, the originality (if I may use 
the term) of their forms and gestures 
and habits, and their variety and inde- 
pendence of each other, throw us out of 
ourselves into another creation, and as 
if under another Creator, if I may so 
express the temptation which may come 
on the mind. We seem to have new 
faculties, or a new exercise for our facul- 
ties, by this addition to our knowl- [310 
edge; like a prisoner, who, having been 
accustomed to wear manacles or fetters, 
suddenly finds his arms and legs free. 

Hence physical science generally, in 
all its departments, as bringing before 
us the exuberant riches and resources, 
yet the orderly course, of the universe, 
elevates and excites the student, and at 
first, I may say, almost takes away his 
breath, while in time it exercises a [320 
trancjuilizing influence upon him. 

.\gain, the study of history is said to 
enlarge and enlighten the mind; and 
why? because, as I conceive, it gives it a 
power of judging of passing events, and 
of all events, and a conscious superiority 



over them, which before it did not pos- 
sess. 

And in like manner, what is called 
seeing the world, entering into active [330 
life, going into society, traveling, gain- 
ing acquaintance with the various classes 
of the community, coming into contact 
with the principles and modes of thought 
of various parties, interests, and races, 
their views, aims, habits and manners, 
their religious creeds and forms of worship, 
— gaining experience how various yet how 
alike men are, how low-minded, how bad, 
how opposed, yet how confident in [340 
their opinions; all this exerts a perceptible 
influence upon the mind, which it is impos- 
sible to mistake, be it good or be it bad, 
and is popularly called its enlargement. 

And then again, the first time the mind 
comes across the arguments and specula- 
tions of unbelievers, and feels what a 
novel light they cast upon what he has 
hitherto accounted sacred; and still more, 
if it gives in to them and embraces [350 
them, and throws off as so much prej- 
udice what it has hitherto held, and, as 
if waking from a dream, begins to realize 
to its imagination that there is now no 
such thing as law and the transgression 
of law, that sin is a phantom, and punish- 
ment a bugbear, that it is free to sin, free 
to enjoy the world and the flesh; and stiU 
further, when it does enjoy them, and 
reflects that it may think and hold [360 
just what it will, that "the world is all 
before it where to choose," and what sys- 
tem to build up as its own private per- 
suasion; when this torrent of wilful 
thoughts rushes over and inundates it, 
who will deny that the fruit of the tree 
of knowledge, or what the mind takes 
for knowledge, has made it one of the 
gods, with a sense of expansion and 
elevation, — an intoxication in reality, [370 
still, so far as the subjective state of 
the mind goes, an illumination? Hence 
the fanaticism of individuals or nations, 
who suddenly cast off their j\Iaker. Their 
eyes are opened; and, like the judgment- 
stricken king in the tragedy, they see two 
suns, and a magic universe, out of which 
they look back upon their former state 
of faith and innocence with a sort of 
contempt and indignation, as if they [380 



732 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



were then but fools, and the dupes of 
imposture. 

On the other hand, rehgion has its 
own enlargement, and an enlargement 
not of tumult, but of peace. It is often 
remarked of uneducated persons, who 
have hitherto thought little of the unseen 
world, that, on their turning to God, 
looking into themselves, regulating their 
hearts, reforming their conduct, and [390 
meditating on death and judgment, 
heaven and hell, they seem to become, in 
point of intellect, different beings from 
what they were. Before, they took things 
as they came, and thought no more of 
one thing than another. But now every 
event has a meaning; they have their own 
estimate of whatever happens to them; 
they are mindful of times and seasons, 
and compare the present with the [400 
past; and the world, no longer dull, monot- 
onous, unprofitable, and hopeless, is a 
various and complicated drama, with 
parts and an object, and an awful moral. 

Now from these instances, to which 
many more might be added, it is plain, 
first, that the communication of knowl- 
edge certainly is either a condition or 
the means of that sense of enlargement, 
or enlightenment, of which at this [410 
day we hear so much in certain quarters: 
this cannot be denied; but next, it is 
equally plain, that such communication 
is not the whole of the process. The 
enlargement consists, not merely in the 
passive reception into the mind of a num- 
ber of ideas hitherto unknown to it, but 
in the mind's energetic and simultaneous 
action upon and towards and among 
those new ideas, which are rushing [420 
in upon it. It is the action of a forma- 
tive power, reducing to order and mean- 
ing the matter of our acquirements; it is 
a making the objects of our knowledge 
subjectively our own, or, to use a familiar 
word, it is a digestion of what we receive, 
into the substance of our previous state of 
thought; and without this no enlargement 
is said to follow. There is no enlarge- 
ment, unless there be a comparison [430 
of ideas one with another, as they come 
before the mind, and a systematizing of 
them. We feel our minds to be growing 
and expanding then, when we not only 



learn, but refer what we learn to what 
we know already. It is not the mere addi- 
tion to our knowledge that is the illumina- 
tion; but the locomotion, the movement 
onwards, of that mental center, to which 
both what we know, and what we [440 
are learning, the accumulating mass of 
our acquirements, gravitates. And there- 
fore a truly great intellect, and recognized 
to be such by the common opinion of 
mankind, such as the intellect of Aristotle, 
or of St. Thomas, or of Newton, or of 
Goethe (I purposely take instances within 
and without the Catholic pale, when I 
would speak of the intellect as such), is 
one which takes a connected view of [450 
old and new, past and present, far and 
near, and which has an insight into the in- 
fluence of all these one on another; with- 
out which there is no whole, and no cen- 
ter. It possesses the knowledge, not only 
of things, but also of their mutual and 
true relations; knowledge, not merely con- 
sidered as acquirement, but as philosophy. 

Accordingly, when this analytical, dis- 
tributive, harmonizing process is [460 
away, the mind experiences no enlarge- 
ment, and is not reckoned as enlightened 
or comprehensive, whatever it may add 
to its knowledge. For instance, a great 
memory, as I have already said, does not 
make a philosopher, any more than a dic- 
tionary can be called a grammar. There 
are men who embrace in their minds a M 
vast multitude of ideas, but with little * 
sensibility about their real relations [470 
towards each other. These may be an- 
tiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they 
may be learned in the law; they may be J 
versed in statistics; they are most useful ^ 
in their own place; I should shrink from 
speaking disrespectfully of them; still, 
there is nothing in such attainments to 
guarantee the absence of narrowness of 
mind. If they are nothing more than 
well-read men, or men of informa- [480 
tion, they have not what specially de- 
serves the name of culture of mind, or 
fulfils the type of liberal education. 

In like manner, we sometimes fall in 
with persons who have seen much of the 
world, and of the men who, in their day, 
have played a conspicuous part in it, 
but who generalize nothing, and have no 



NEWMAN 



733 



observation, in the true sense of the 
word. They abound in information [490 
in detail, curious and entertaining, about 
men and things; and, having hved under 
the influence of no very clear or settled 
principles, religious or political, they 
speak of every one and every thing, only 
as so many phenomena, which are com- 
plete in themselves, and lead to nothing, 
not discussing them, or teaching any 
truth, or instructing the hearer, but 
simply talking. No one would say [500 
that these persons, well informed as they 
are, had attained to any great culture of 
intellect or to philosophy. 

The case is the same still more strikingly 
where the persons in question are be- 
yond dispute men of inferior powers 
and deficient education. Perhaps they 
have been much in foreign countries, and 
they receive, in a passive, otiose, im- 
fruitful way, the various facts which [510 
are forced upon them there. Seafaring 
men, for example, range from one end of 
the earth to the other; but the multi- 
plicity of external objects, which they 
have encountered, forms no symmetrical 
and consistent picture upon their imag- 
ination; they see the tapestry of human 
life, as it were on the wrong side, and it 
tells no story. They sleep, and they rise 
up, and they find themselves, now in [520 
Europe, now in Asia; they see xdsions of 
great cities and wild regions; they are in 
the marts of commerce, or amid the 
islands of the South; they gaze on Pom- 
pey's Pillar, or on the Andes; and noth- 
ing which meets them carries them for- 
ward or backward, to any idea beyond 
itself. Nothing has a drift or relation; 
nothing has a history or a promise. 
Every thing stands by itself, and [530 
comes and goes in its turn, like the shift- 
ing scenes of a show, which leave the 
spectator where he was. Perhaps you 
are near such a man on a particular oc- 
casion, and expect him to be shocked or 
perplexed at something which occurs; 
but one thing is much the same to him 
as another, or, if he is perplexed, it is as 
not knowing what to say, whether it is 
right to admire, or to ridicule, or to [540 
disapprove, while conscious that some 
expression of opinion is expected from 



him; for in fact he has no standard of 
judgment at all, and no landmarks to 
guide him to a conclusion. Such is mere 
acquisition, and, I repeat, no one would 
dream of calling it philosophy. 

Instances such as these confirm, by 
the contrast, the conclusion I have al- 
ready drawn from those which pre- [550 
ceded them. That only is true enlarge- 
ment of mind which is the power of view- 
ing many things at once as one whole, of 
referring them severally to their true 
place in the universal system, of under- 
standing their respective values, and 
determining their mutual dependence. 
Thus is that form of universal knowledge, 
of which I have on a former occasion 
spoken, set up in the individual in- [560 
tellect, and constitutes its perfection. 
Possessed of this real illumination, the 
mind never views any part of the ex- 
tended subject-matter of knowledge with- 
out recollecting that it is but a part, or 
without the associations which spring 
from this recollection. It makes every- 
thing in some sort lead to everything 
else; it would communicate the image 
of the whole to every separate por- [570 
tion, till that whole becomes in im- 
agination like a spirit, everywhere per- 
vading and penetrating its component 
parts, and giving them one definite mean- 
ing. Just as our bodily organs, when 
mentioned, recall their function in the 
body, as the word "creation" suggests 
the Creator, and "subjects" a sovereign, 
so, in the mind of the philosopher, as we 
are abstractedly conceiving of him, [580 
the elements of the physical and moral 
world, sciences, arts, pursuits, ranks, 
offices, events, opinions, individualities, 
are all viewed as one, \\'ith correlative 
functions, and as gradually by successive 
combinations converging, one and all, to 
the true center. 

To have even a portion of this illumi- 
native reason and true philosophy is the 
highest state to which nature can [590 
aspire, in the way of intellect; it puts the 
mind above the influences of chance and 
necessity, above anxiety, suspense, un- 
settlement, and superstition, which is the 
lot of the many. Men whose minds are 
possessed with some one object, take 



734 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



exaggerated views of its importance, are 
feverish in the pursuit of it, make it the 
measure of things which are utterly 
foreign to it, and are startled and [600 
despond if it happens to fail them. They 
are ever in alarm or in transport. Those 
on the other hand who have no object 
or principle whatever to hold by, lose 
their way every step they take. They 
are thrown out, and do not know what to 
think or say, at every fresh juncture; 
they have no view of persons, or occur- 
rences, or facts, which come suddenly 
upon them, and they hang upon [610 
the opinion of others for want of internal 
resources. But the intellect, which has 
been disciplined to the perfection of its 
powers, which knows, and thinks while 
it knows, which has learned to leaven 
the dense mass of facts and events with 
the elastic force of reason, such an intel- 
lect cannot be partial, cannot be exclusive, 
cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, 
cannot but be patient, collected, [620 
and majestically calm, because it discerns 
the end in every beginning, the origin 
in every end, the law in every interrup- 
tion, the limit in each delay; because it 
ever knows where it stands, and how its 
path lies from one point to another. 
It is the TCTpayoDvos of the Peripatetic, 
and has the nil admirari of the 
Stoic, — 

" Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere [630 

causas, 
Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum 
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acher- 

ontis avari." 

There are men who, when in difficulties, ! 
originate at the moment vast ideas or J 
dazzling projects; who, under the in- 
fluence of excitement, are able to cast a 
light, almost as if from inspiration, on a 
subject or course of action which comes 
before them; who have a sudden presence 
of mind equal to any emergency, ris- [640 
ing with the occasion, and an undaunted 
magnanimous bearing, and an energy and 
keenness which is but made intense by 
opposition. This is genius, this is hero- 
ism; it is the exhibition of a natural gift, 
which no culture can teach, at which 
no institution can aim: here, on the con- 



trary, we are concerned not with mere 
nature, but with training and teaching. 
That perfection of the intellect, which [650 
is the result of education, and its beau 
ideal, to be imparted to individuals, in 
their respective measures, is the clear, 
calm, accurate vision and comprehension 
of all things, as far as the finite mind can 
embrace them, each in its place, and with 
its own characteristics upon it. It is 
almost prophetic from its knowledge of 
history; it is almost heart-searching from 
its knowledge of human nature; it [660 
has almost supernatural charity from its 
freedom from littleness and prejudice; 
it has almost the repose of faith, because 
nothing can startle it; it has almost the 
beauty and harmony of heavenly con- 
templation, so intimate is it with the 
eternal order of things and the music of 
the spheres. 

And now, if I may take for granted that 
the true and adequate end of in- [670 
tellectual training and of a university is 
not learning or acquirement, but rather 
is thought or reason exercised upon knowl- 
edge, or what may be called philosophy, 
I shall be in a position to explain the 
various mistakes which at the present 
day beset the subject of university educa- 
tion. 

I say then, if we would improve the 
intellect, first of all, we must ascend; [680 
we cannot gain real knowledge on a level; 
we must generalize, we must reduce to 
method, we must have a grasp of prin- 
ciples, and group and shape our acquisi- 
tions by means of them. It matters not 
whether our field of operation be wide or 
limited; in every case, to command it, is 
to mount above it. Who has not felt 
the irritation of mind and impatience 
created by a deep, rich country, [690 
visited for the first time, with winding 
lanes, and high hedges, and green steeps, 
and tangled woods, and every thing 
smiling indeed, but in a maze? The same 
feeling comes upon us in a strange city, 
where we have no map of its streets. 
Hence you hear of practised travelers, 
when they first come into a place, mount- 
ing some high hill or church tower, by 
way of reconnoitering its neighbor- [700 
hood. In like manner, you must be above 



NEWMAN 



735 



your knowledge, not under it, or it will 
oppress you; and the more you have of it, 
the greater will be the load. The learning 
of a Salmasius or a Burman, unless you 
are its master, will be your tyrant. Im- 
perat aut servit; if you can wield it with 
a strong arm, it is a great weapon; other- 
wise, 

" Vis consili expers [710 

Mole ruit sua." 

You will be overwhelmed, like Tarpeia, 
by the heavy wealth which you have ex- 
acted from tributary generations. 

Instances abound; there are authors 
who are as pointless as they are inex- 
haustible in their literary resources. They 
measure knowledge by bulk, as it lies 
in the rude block, without symmetry, 
without design. How many com- [720 
mentators are there on the classics, how 
many on Holy Scripture, from whom 
we rise up, wondering at the learning 
which has passed before us, and wonder- 
ing why it passed! How many writers 
are there of Ecclesiastical history, such 
as Mosheim or Du Pin, who, breaking 
up their subject into details, destroy its 
life, and defraud us of the whole by their 
anxiety about the parts! The ser- [730 
mons, again, of the English divines in 
the seventeenth century, how often are 
they mere repertories of miscellaneous 
and officious learning! Of course Cath- 
olics also may read without thinking; and 
in their case, equally as with Protestants, 
it holds good, that such knowledge is un- 
worthy of the name, knowledge which 
they have not thought through, and 
thought out. Such readers are only [740 
possessed by their knowledge, not pos- 
sessed of it; nay, in matter of fact they 
are often even carried away by it, with- 
out any volition of their own. Recollect, 
the memory can tyrannize, as wxU as 
the imagination. Derangement, I be- 
lieve, has been considered as a loss of 
control over the sequence of ideas. The 
mind, once set in motion, is henceforth 
deprived of the power of initiation, [750 
and becomes the victim of a train of 
associations, one thought suggesting an- 
other, in the way of cause and effect, as 
if by a mechanical process, or some 



physical necessity. No one, who has had 
experience of men of studious habits, but 
must recognize the existence of a parallel 
phenomenon in the case of those who 
have over-stimulated the memory. In 
such persons reason acts almost as [760 
feebly and as impotently as in the mad- 
man; once fairly started on any subject 
whatever, they have no power of self- 
control; they passively endure the suc- 
cession of impulses which are evolved 
out of the original exciting cause; they 
are passed on from one idea to another 
and go steadily forward, plodding along 
one line of thought in spite of the amplest 
concessions of the hearer, or wander- [770 
ing from it in endless digression in spite 
of his remonstrances. Now, if, as is very 
certain, no one would envy the madman 
the glow and originahty of his concep- 
tions, why must we extol the cultivation 
of that intellect, which is the prey, not 
indeed of barren fancies but of barren 
facts, of random intrusions from with- 
out, though not of morbid imaginations 
from within? And in thus speaking, [780 
I am not denying that a strong and ready 
memory is in itself a real treasure; I am 
not disparaging a well-stored mind, 
though it be nothing besides, provided 
it be sober, any more than I would despise 
a bookseller's shop: — it is of great value 
to others, even when not so to the owner. 
Nor am I banishing, far from it, the pos- 
sessors of deep and multifarious learning 
from my ideal University; they adorn [790 
it in the eyes of men; I do but say that 
they constitute no type of the results at 
which it aims; that it is no great gain to 
the intellect to have enlarged the memory 
at the expense of faculties which are in- 
disputably higher. 

Nor indeed am I supposing that there 
is any great danger, at least in this day, 
of over-education; the danger is on the 
other side. I will tell you, gentle- [800 
men, what has been the practical error 
of the last twenty years, — not to load the 
memory of the student with a mass of un- 
digested knowledge, but to force upon him 
so much that he has rejected all. It has 
been the error of distracting and enfeeb- 
ling the mind by an unmeaning profusion 
of subjects; of implying that a smattering 



736 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



in a dozen branches of study is not shal- 
lowness, which it really is, but en- [8io 
largement, which it is not; of considering 
an acquaintance with the learned names 
of things and persons and the possession 
of clever duodecimos, and attendance on 
eloquent lecturers, and membership with 
scientific institutions, and the sight of 
the experiments of a platform and the 
specimens of a musemn, that all this was 
not dissipation of mind, but progress. 
All things now are to be learned at [820 
once, not first one thing, then another; 
not one well, but many badly. Learning 
is to be without exertion, without atten- 
tion, without toil; without grounding, 
without advance, without finishing. There 
is to be nothing individual in it ; and this, 
forsooth, is the wonder of the age. What 
the steam engine does with matter, the 
printing press is to do with the mind; it 
is to act mechanically, and the popula- [830 
tion is to be passively, almost uncon- 
sciously enlightened, by the mere mul- 
tiplication and dissemination of volumes. 
Whether it be the school boy, or the school 
girl, or the youth at college, or the me- 
chanic in the town, or the politician in the 
senate, all have been the victims in one 
way or other of this most preposterous 
and pernicious of delusions. Wise men 
have lifted up their voices in vain; [840 
and at length, lest their own institutions 
should be outshone and should disappear 
in the folly of the hour, they have been 
obliged, as far as they could with a good 
conscience, to humor a spirit which they 
could not withstand, and make tem- 
porizing concessions at which they could 
not but inwardly smile. 

It must not be supposed that, because 
I so speak, therefore I have some [850 
sort of fear of the education of the people : 
on the contrary, the more education they 
have, the better, so that it is really edu- 
cation. Nor am I an enemy to the cheap 
publication of scientific and literary works, 
which is now in vogue: on the contrary, 
I consider it a great advantage, conven- 
ience, and gain; that is, to those to whom 
education has given a capacity for using 
them. Further, I consider such [860 
innocent recreations as science and litera- 
ture are able to furnish will be a very fit 



occupation of the thoughts and the 
leisure of young persons, and may be 
made the means of keeping them from 
bad employments and bad companions. 
Moreover, as to that superficial acquaint- 
ance with chemistry, and geology, and 
astronomy, and political economy, and 
modern history, and biography, and [870 
other branches of knowledge, which period- 
ical literature and occasional lectures 
and scientific institutions diffuse through 
the community, I think it a graceful 
accomplishment, and a suitable, nay, in 
this day a necessary accomplishment, in 
the case of educated men. Nor, lastly, 
am I disparaging or discouraging the 
thorough acquisition of any one of these 
studies, or denying that, as far as it [880 
goes, such thorough acquisition is a real 
education of the mind. All I say is, call 
things by their right names, and do not 
confuse together ideas which are essen- 
tially different. A thorough knowledge 
of one science and a superficial acquaint- 
ance with many, are not the same thing; 
a smattering of a hundred things or a 
memory for detail, is not a philosophical 
or comprehensive view. Recrea- [890 
tions are not education; accomplishments 
are not education. Do not say, the people 
must be educated, when, after all, you 
only mean, amused, refreshed, soothed, 
put into good spirits and good humor, 
or kept from vicious excesses. I do not 
say that such amusements, such occupa- 
tions of mind, are not a great gain; but 
they are not education. You may as 
well call drawing and fencing educa- [900 
tion as a general knowledge of botany or 
conchology. Stuffing birds or playing 
stringed instruments is an elegant pas- 
time, and a resource to the idle, but it is 
not education; it does not form or culti- 
vate the intellect. Education is a high 
word; it is the preparation for knowledge, 
and it is the imparting of knowledge in 
proportion to that preparation. We 
require intellectual eyes to know [910 
withal, as bodily eyes for sight. We need 
both objects and organs intellectual; we 
cannot gain them without setting about 
it; we cannot gain them in our sleep, or 
by haphazard. The best telescope does 
not dispense with eyes; the printing press 



NEWMAN 



737 



or the lecture room will assist us greatly, 
but we must be true to ourselves, we must 
be parties in the work. A university is, 
according to the usual designation, [920 
an alma mater, knowing her children one 
by one, not a foundry, or a mint, or a 
treadmill. 

I protest to you, gentlemen, that if I 
had to choose between a so-called uni- 
versity, which dispensed with residence 
and tutorial superintendence, and gave 
its degrees to any person who passed an 
examination in a wide range of subjects, 
and a university which had no pro- [930 
fessors or examinations at all, but merely 
brought a number of young men together 
for three or four years, and then sent 
them away as the University of Oxford 
is said to have done some sixty years 
since, if I were asked which of these two 
methods was the better discipline of the 
intellect, — mind, I do not say which is 
morally the better, for it is plain that 
compulsory study must be a good [940 
and idleness an intolerable mischief, — 
but if I must determine which of the two 
courses was the more successful in train- 
ing, molding, enlarging the mind, which 
sent out men the more fitted for their 
secular duties, which produced better 
public men, men of the world, men whose 
names would descend to posterity, I have 
no hesitation in giving the preference to 
that university which did nothing, [950 
over that which exacted of its members 
an acquaintance with every science under 
the sun. And, paradox as this may seem, 
still if results be the test of systems, the 
influence of the public schools and col- 
leges of England, in the course of the last 
century, at least will bear out one side 
of the contrast as I have drawn it. What 
would come, on the other hand, of the 
ideal systems of education which [960 
have fascinated the imagination of this 
age, could they ever take effect, and 
whether they would not produce a genera- 
tion frivolous, narrow-minded, and re- 
sourceless. intellectually considered, is a 
fair subject for debate; but so far is cer- 
tain, that the universities and scholastic 
establishments, to which I refer, and 
which did little more than bring together 
first boys and then youths in large [970 



numbers, these institutions, with miser- 
able deformities on the side of morals, 
with a hollow profession of Christianity, 
and a heathen code of ethics, — I say, at 
least they can boast of a succession of 
heroes and statesmen, of literary men 
and philosophers, of men conspicuous for 
great natural virtues, for habits of busi- 
ness, for knowledge of Hfe, for practical 
judgment, for cultivated tastes, for [980 
accomplishments, who have made Eng- 
land what it is, — able to subdue the earth, 
able to domineer over Catholics. 

How is this to be explained? I sup- 
pose as follows: When a multitude of 
young men, keen, open-hearted, sympa- 
thetic, and observant, as young men are, 
come together and freely mix with each 
other, they are sure to learn one from 
another, even if there be no one to [990 
teach them; the conversation of all is a 
series of lectures to each, and they gain 
for themselves new ideas and views, fresh 
matter of thought, and distinct principles 
for judging and acting, day by day. An 
infant has to learn the meaning of the 
information which its senses convey to 
it, and this seems to be its employment. 
It fancies all that the eye presents to it 
to be close to it, till it actually learns [1000 
the contrary, and thus by practice does 
it ascertain the relations and uses of those 
first elements of knowledge which are 
necessary for its animal existence. A 
parallel teaching is necessary for our social 
being, and it is secured by a large school 
or a college; and this effect may be fairly 
called in its own department an enlarge- 
ment of mind. It is seeing the world on a 
small field with Httle trouble; for the [loio 
pupils or students come from very dif- 
ferent places, and with widely different 
notions, and there is much to generalize, 
much to adjust, much to eliminate; there 
are inter-relations to be defined, and con- 
ventional rules to be established, in the 
process by which the whole assemblage 
is molded together, and gains one tone 
and one character. 

Let it be clearly understood, I re- [1020 
peat it, that I am not taking into account 
moral or reHgious considerations; I am 
but saying that that youthful community 
will constitute a whole, it will embody a 



738 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



specific idea, it will represent a doctrine, 
it will administer a code of conduct, and 
it will furnish principles of thought and 
action. It will give birth to a living 
teaching, which in course of time will 
take the shape of a self -perpetuating [1030 
tradition, or a genius loci, as it is some- 
times called; which haunts the home 
where it has been born, and which im- 
bues and forms more or less, and one by 
one, every individual who is successively 
brought under its shadow. Thus it is 
that, independent of direct instruction on 
the part of superiors, there is a sort of 
self-education in the academic institu- 
tions of protestant England; a char- [1040 
acteristic tone of thought, a recognized 
standard of judgment is found in them, 
which as developed in the individual who 
is submitted to it, becomes a twofold 
source of strength to him, both from the 
distinct stamp it impresses on his mind, 
and from the bond of union which it 
creates between him and others, — effects 
which are shared by the authorities of 
the place, for they themselves have [1050 
been educated in it, and at all times are 
exposed to the influence of its ethical at- 
mosphere. Here then is a real teaching, 
whatever be its standards and principles, 
true or false; and it at least tends towards 
cultivation of the intellect; it at least 
recognizes that knowledge is something 
more than a sort of passive reception of 
scraps and details; it is a something, and 
it does a something, which never will [1060 
-issue from the most strenuous efforts of a 
set of teachers, with no mutual sympathies 
and no intercommunion, of a set of ex- 
aminers with no opinions which they 
dare profess, and with no common prin- 
ciples, who are teaching or questioning a 
set of youths who do not know them, and 
do not know each other, on a large num- 
ber of subjects, different in kind, and 
connected by no wide philosophy, [1070 
three times a week, or three times a year, 
or once in three years, in chill lecture 
rooms or on a pompous anniversary. 

Nay, self-education in any shape, in 
the most restricted sense, is preferable to 
a system of teaching which, professing 
so much, really does so little for the 
mind. Shut your college gates against 



the votary of knowledge, throw him back 
upon the searchings and the efforts [1080 
of his own mind; he will gain by being 
spared an entrance into your babel. Few 
indeed there are who can dispense with 
the stimulus and support of instructors, or 
will do anything at all, if left to them- 
selves. And fewer still (though such 
great minds are to be found,) who will 
not, from such unassisted attempts, con- 
tract a self-reliance and a self-esteem, 
which are not only moral evils, but [1090 
serious hindrances to the attainment of 
truth. And next to none, perhaps, or 
none, who will not be reminded from time 
to time of the disadvantage under which 
they lie, by their imperfect grounding, 
by the breaks, deficiencies, and irregulari- 
ties of their knowledge, by the eccen- 
tricity of opinion and the confusion of 
principle which they exhibit. They will 
be too often ignorant of what every [noo 
one knows and takes for granted, of that 
multitude of small truths which fall upon 
the mind like dust, impalpable and ever 
accumulating; they may be unable to 
converse, they may argue perversely, they 
may pride themselves on their worst 
paradoxes or their grossest truisms, they 
may be full of their own mode of viewing 
things, unwilHng to be put out of their 
way, slow to enter into the minds [mo 
of others; — but, with these and what- 
ever other liabilities upon their heads, 
they are likely to have more thought, 
more mind, more philosophy, more true 
enlargement, than those earnest but ill- 
used persons, who are forced to load their 
minds with a score of subjects against 
an examination, who have too much on 
their hands to indulge themselves in 
thinking or investigation, who devour [1120 
premise and conclusion together with in- 
discriminate greediness, who hold whole 
sciences on faith, and commit demon- 
strations to memory, and who too often, 
as might be expected, when their period 
of education is passed, throw up all they 
have learned in disgust, having gained 
nothing really by their anxious labors, 
except perhaps the habit of application. 

Yet such is the better specimen of [1130 
the fruit of that ambitious system which 
has of late years been making way among 



NEWMAN 



739 



us; for its result on ordinary minds, and 
on the common run of students, is less 
satisfactory still; they leave their place 
of education simply dissipated and re- 
laxed by the multiplicity of subjects which 
they have never really mastered, and 
so shallow as not even to know their 
shallowness. How much better, I [1140 
say, is it for the active and thoughtful in- 
tellect, where such is to be found, to 
eschew the college and the university 
altogether, than to submit to a drudgery 
so ignoble, a mockery so contumelious! 
How much more profitable for the in- 
dependent mind, after the mere rudi- 
ments of education, to range through 
a library at random, taking down books 
as they meet him, and pursuing the [1150 
trains of thought which his mother wit 
suggests! How much healthier to wander 
into the fields, and there with the exiled 
prince to find ''tongues in the trees, books 
in the running brooks " ! How much more 
genuine an education is that of the poor 
boy in the poem — a poem, whether in con- 
ception or in execution, one of the most 
touching in our language — who, not in the 
wide world, but ranging day by day [1160 
around his widowed mother's home, "a 
dexterous gleaner" in a narrow field, and 
with only such slender outfit 

" As the village school and books a few 
Supplied," 

contrived from the beach, and the quay, 
and the fisher's boat, and the inn's fire- 
side, and the tradesman's shop, and the 
shepherd's walk, and the smuggler's hut, 
and the mossy moor, and the scream- [1170 
ing gulls, and the restless waves, to fashion 
for himself a philosophy and a poetry 
of his own! 

But in a large subject, I am exceeding 
my necessary limits. Gentlemen, I must 
conclude abruptly; and postpone any 
summing up of my argument, should that 
be necessary, to another day. 



From the APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA 

KiNGSLEY AND NeWMAN 

Mr. Kingsley begins then by exclaim- 
ing, — "0 the chicanery, the wholesale 



fraud, the vile hypocrisy, the conscience- 
killing tyranny of Rome! We have not 
far to seek for an evidence of it! There's 
Father Newman, to wit: one living speci- 
men is worth a hundred dead ones. He, 
a priest, writing of priests, tells us that 
lying is never any harm." 

I interpose: "You are taking a most [10 
extraordinary Liberty with my name. If 
I have said this, tell me when and 
where." 

Mr. Kingsley replies: "You said it, 
Reverend Sir, in a sermon which you 
preached, when a Protestant, as Vicar of 
St. Mary's, and published in 1844; and I 
could read you a very salutary lecture on 
the effects which that sermon had at the 
time on my own opinion of you." [20 

I make answer: "Oh .... Not, it 
seems, as a priest speaking of priests; but 
let us have the passage." 

Mr. Kingsley relaxes: "Do you know, 
I like your tone. From your tone, I rejoice, 
greatly rejoice, to be able to believe that 
you did not mean what you said." 

I rejoin: ''Mean it! I maintain I never 
said it, whether as a Protestant or as a 
Catholic." [30 

Mr. Kingsley replies: "I waive that 
point." 

I object: "Is it possible? What? waive 
the main question! I either said it or I 
didn't. You have made a monstrous 
charge against me: direct, distinct, pub- 
lic. You are bound to prove it as directly, 
as distinctly, as publicly; — or to own you 
can't!" 

"Well," says Mr. Kingsley, "if you [40 
are quite sure you did not say it, I'll take 
your word for it; I really will." 

My word! I am dumb. Somehow I 
thought that it was my word that hap- 
pened to be on trial. The word of a 
Professor of Ijang, that he does not 
lie! 

But Mr. Kinglsey reassures me: "We 
are both gentlemen," he says: "I have 
done as much as one English gentle- [50 
man can expect from another." 

I begin to see: he thought me a gen- 
tleman at the very time that he said I 
taught lying on system. After all, it is 
not I, but Mr. Kingsley who did not mean 
what he said. 



740 



TEE VICTORIAN AGE 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 
(1828-1882) 

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 

The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of Heaven; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even; 

She had three lilies in her hand, 5 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem. 
No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift. 

For service meetly worn; lo 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Herseemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 15 

From that still look of hers ; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in this place, 20 

Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face. . . . 
Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 

It was the rampart of God's house 25 

That she was standing on; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 30 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 35 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Around her, lovers, newly met 
'Mid deathless love's acclaims, 

Spoke evermore among themselves 

Their heart-remembered names; 40 

And the souls mounting up to God 
Went by her like thin flames. 



And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circUng charm; 
Until her bosom must have made 45 

The bar she leaned on warm, 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 
Time like a pulse shake fierce 50 

Through all the world. Her gaze still 
strove 
Within the gulf to pierce 

Its path; and now she spoke as when 
The stars sang in their spheres. 

The sun was gone now; the curled moon 55 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together. 60 

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's 
song. 

Strove not her accents there. 
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air. 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 65 

Down all the echoing stair?) 

"I wish that he were come to me. 

For he will come," she said. 
" Have I not prayed in Heaven? — on earth. 

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed? 70 

Are not two prayers a perfect strength? 

And shall I feel afraid? 

"When round his head the aureole clings, 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll take his hand and go with him 75 

To the deep wells of light; 
As unto a stream we will step down, 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

"We two will stand beside that shrine, 
Occult, withheld, untrod, 80 

Whose lamps are stirred continually 
With prayer sent up to God; 

And see our old prayers, granted, melt 
Each like a little cloud. 



"We two will lie i' the shadow of 
That living mystic tree 



85 



ROSSETTI 



741 



Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be, 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 90 

"And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so. 
The songs I sing here; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow. 
And find some knowledge at each pause, 95 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God hft 

To endless unity 100 

The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee?) 

"We two," she said, "will seek the groves 

Where the lady Mary is. 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 106 

Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys. 

" Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 
And foreheads garlanded; no 

Into the fine cloth white like flame 
Weaving the golden thread. 

To fashion the birth-robes for them 
Who are just born, being dead. 

"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: 115 

Then will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abashed or weak: 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 120 

"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. 

To him round whom all souls 
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 

Bowed with their aureoles: 
And angels meeting us shall sing 125 

To their citherns and citoles. 

"There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
Thus much for him and me: — 

Only to live as once on earth 

With Love, — only to be, 130 

As then awhile, for ever now 
Together, I and he." 



She gazed and listened and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 134 

"All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
The light thrilled towards her, filled 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres: 140 

And then she cast her arms along 
The golden barriers. 

And laid her face between her hands, 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 



SISTER HELEN 

"Why did you melt your waxen man, 
Sister Helen? 

To-day is the third since you began." 

"The time was long, yet the time ran. 
Little brother." 5 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"But if you have done your work aright. 

Sister Helen, 
You'll let me play, for you said I might." 
"Be very, still in your play to-night, 11 
Little brother." 
(O mother, Mary Mother, 
Third night, to-night, between Hell and 
Heaven/) 

"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, 15 
Sister Helen; 

If now it be molten, all is well." 

"Even so, — nay, peace! you cannot tell, 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 20 

Oh what is this, between Hell and Heaven?) 

"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day. 
Sister Helen; 

How like dead folk he has dropped away ! " 

"Nay now, of the dead what can you say, 

Little brother? " 26 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?) 

"See, see, the sunken pile of wood. 

Sister Helen, 30 
Shines through the thinned wax red as 
blood!" 



742 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



"Nay now, when looked you yet on blood, 
Little brother? " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Now close your eyes, for they're sick 
and sore, 36 

Sister Helen, 
And I'll play without the gallery door." 
"Aye, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor, 

Little brother." 40 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What rest to-night between Hell and 
Heaven?) 

"Here high up in the balcony, 

Sister Helen, 
The moon flies face to face with me." 45 
"Aye, look and say whatever you see. 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What sight to-night, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 

"Outside it's merry in the wind's wake, 50 

Sister Helen; 
In the shaken trees the chill stars shake." 
"Hush, heard you a horse- tread as you 
spake. 

Little brother? " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 55 
What sound to-night, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 

"I hear a horse-tread, and I see, 
Sister Helen, 
Three horsemen that ride terribly." 
"Little brother, whence come the three, 60 
Little brother? " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Whence should they come, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 

"They come by the hill- verge from Boyne 
Bar, 

Sister Helen, 65 
And one draws nigh, but two are afar." 
"Look, look, do you know them who they 
are, 

Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Who should they be, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 70 



"Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so 
fast. 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white mane on the blast." 
"The hour has come, has come at last, 

Little brother!" 75 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"He has made a sign and called Halloo! 

Sister Helen, 
And he says that he would speak with 
you." 80 

"Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew. 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Why laughs she thus, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 

"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, 85 

Sister Helen, 
That Keith of Ewern's like to die." 
"And he and thou, and thou and I, 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 90 
And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Three days ago, on his marriage-morn, 

Sister Helen, 

He sickened, and lies since then forlorn." 

"For bridegroom's side is the bride a 

thorn, 95 

Little brother? " 

(O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Three days and nights he has lain abed. 
Sister Helen, 100 

And he prays in torment to be dead." 

"The thing may chance, if he have prayed. 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven!) 

" But he has not ceased to cry to-day, 106 

Sister Helen, 
That you should take your curse away." 
"My prayer was heard, — he need but 
pray. 

Little brother!" no 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Shall God not hear, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 



ROSSETTI 



743 



"But he says, till you take back your ban, 
Sister Helen, 

His soul would pass, yet never can." 115 

"Nay then, shall I slay a Hving man. 
Little brother?" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 

A living soul, between Hell and Heaven/) 

"But he calls forever on your name, 120 
Sister Helen, 

And says that he melts before a flame." 

" My heart for his pleasure fared the same. 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 125 

Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast. 
Sister Helen, 

For I know the white plume on the blast." 

"The hour, the sweet hour I forecast, 130 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?) 

"He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, 

Sister Helen; 135 

But his words are drowned in the wind's 

course." 
"Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear per- 
force, 

Little brother!" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
What word now heard, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 140 

"Oh, he says that Keith of Ewern's cry. 

Sister Helen, 
Is ever to see you ere he die." 
"In all that his soul sees, there am I, 

Little brother!" 145 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
The souVs one sight, between Hell and 
Heaven!) 

"He sends a ring and a broken coin, 
Sister Helen, 

And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." 

"What else he broke will he ever join, 151 
Little brother?" 
(OMother, Mary Mother, 

No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"He yields you these and craves full fain, 
Sister Helen, 156 



You pardon him in his mortal pain." 
"What else he took will he give again. 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 160 
Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"He calls your name in an agony. 
Sister Helen, 
That even dead Love must weep to see." 
"Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, 165 
Little brother!" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Love turned to hate, between Hell and 
Heaven!) 

"Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides 
fast, 

Sister Helen, 170 

For I know the white hair on the blast." 

"The short, short hour will soon be past, 

Little brother!" 

(O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Will soon be past, between Hell and 

Heaven!) 175 

"He looks at me and he tries to speak, 
Sister Helen, 

But oh! his voice is sad and weak!" 

"What here should the mighty Baron seek. 

Little brother?" 180 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?) 

"Oh his son still cries, if you forgive. 
Sister Helen, 

The body dies, but the soul shall live. "185 

"Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, 

Little brother!" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 

As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Oh he prays you, as his heart would 
rive, 190 

Sister Helen, 
To save his dear son's soul aUve." 
"Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive. 

Little brother! " 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 195 
Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"He cries to you, kneeling in the road, 

Sister Helen, 
To go with him for the love of God!" 



744 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



"The way is long to his son's abode, 200 
Little brother." 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, 
Sister Helen, 205 
So darkly clad, I saw her not." 
"See her now or never see aught, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What more to see, between Hell attd 
Heaven?) 210 

"Her hood falls back, and the moon shines 
fair. 

Sister Helen, 
On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair." 
"Blest hour of my power and her despair. 
Little brother! " 215 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Hour blest and banned, between Hell and 
HeavenI) 

"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did 
glow. 

Sister Helen, 
'Neath the bridal- wreath three days ago." 
"One morn for pride and three days for 
woe, 221 

Little brother!" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Three days, three nights, between Hell and 
HeavenI) 

" Her clasped hands stretch from her bend- 
ing head, 225 
Sister Helen; 
With the loud wind's wail her sobs are 

wed." 
"What wedding-strains hath her bridal- 
bed. 

Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 230 
What strain but death's, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 

" She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon. 

Sister Helen, — 
She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." 
"Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe 
tune, 235 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and 
Heaven!) 



"They've caught her to Westholm's 
saddle-bow. 

Sister Helen, 240 
And her moonlit hair gleams white in its 

flow." 
"Let it turn whiter than winter snow. 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Woe-withered gold, between Hell and 
Heaven!) 245 

"O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, 
Sister Helen! 

More loud than the vesper-chime it fell." 

"No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, 

Little brother! "250 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Alas! but I fear the heavy sound. 
Sister Helen; 
Is it in the sky or in the ground?" 255 
" Say, have they turned their horses round, 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What would she more, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 

"They have raised the old man from his 
knee, 260 

Sister Helen, 
And they ride in silence hastily." 
"More fast the naked soul doth flee, 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 265 
The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Flank to flank are the three steeds gone. 

Sister Helen, 
But the lady's dark steed goes alone." 
"And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath 
flown, 270 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, 

Sister Helen, 275 

And weary sad they look by the hill." 

"But he and I are sadder stiU, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Most sad of all, between Hell and HeavenI) 



ROSSETTI 



745 



"See, see the wax has dropped from its 
place, 281 

Sister Helen, 
And the flames are winning up apace!" 
"Yet here they burn but for a space, 

Littlebrother!"285 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven/) 

"Ah! what white thing at the door has 
crossed. 

Sister Helen, 
Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost? "290 
"A soul that's lost as mine is lost. 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven/) 



From THE HOUSE OF LIFE 

THE SONNET 

A Sonnet is a moment's monument, — 

Memorial from the Soul's eternity. 

To one dead deathless hour. Look that it 

be. 
Whether for lustral rite or dire portent, 
Of its own arduous fulness reverent: 5 
Carve it in ivory or in ebony. 
As Day or Night may rule; and let Time 

see 
Its flowering crest impearled and orient. 
A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals 
The soul, — its converse, to what Power 
't is due: — 10 

Whether for tribute to the august appeals 
Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue, 
It serve; or, 'mid the dark wharf's cav- 
ernous breath, 
In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death. 

IV. LOVESIGHT 

When do I see thee most, beloved one? 
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes 
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize 
The worship of that Love through thee 

made known? 
Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) 
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies, 6 
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage 

Ues, 
And my soul only sees thy soul its own? 



love, my love! if I no more should see 
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of 

thee, 10 

Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 
How then should sound upon Life's dark- 
ening slope. 
The ground- whirl of the perished leaves of 

Hope, 
The wind of Death's imperishable wing? 

XIX. SILENT NOON 

Your hands lie open in the long fresh 

grass, — 
The finger-points look through like rosy 

blooms: 
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture 

gleams and glooms 
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and 

amass. 
All round our nest, far as the eye can 

pass, ^ _ 5 

Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge 
Where the cow-parsley skirts the haw- 
thorn-hedge. 
'T is visible silence, still as the hour-glass. 
Deep in the sun-searched growths the 

dragon-fly 
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the 

sky: — 10 

So this winged hour is dropped to us from 

above. 
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless 

dower. 
This close-companioned inarticulate hour 
When twofold silence was the song of love. 

XCVn. A SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look in my face; my name is Might-have- 
been; 

1 am also called No-more, Too-late, Fare- 

well; 

Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell 

Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet be- 
tween; 

Unto thine eyes the glass where that is 
seen s 

Which had Life's form and Love's, but by 
my spell 

Is now a shaken shadow intolerable. 

Of ultimate things unuttered the frail 
screen. 

Mark me, how still I am! But should 
there dart 



746 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



One moment through thy soul the soft sur- 
prise lO 

Of that winged Peace which lulls the 
breath of sighs, — 

Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn 
apart 

Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart, 

Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. 



WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) 
From THE EARTHLY PARADISE 

AN APOLOGY 

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to 

sing, 
I cannot ease the burden of your fears, 
Or make quick-coming death a Httle thing, 
Or bring again the pleasure of past years, 
Nor for my words shall ye forget your 

tears, 5 

Or hope again for aught that I can say, 
The idle singer of an empty day. 

But rather, when aweary of your mirth. 
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, 
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, lo 
Grudge every minute as it passes by, 
Made the more mindful that the sweet 

days die — 
Remember me a little then, I pray, 
The idle singer of an empty day. 

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care 
That weighs us down who live and earn 

our bread, i6 

These idle verses have no power to bear; 
So let me sing of names remembered. 
Because they, living not, can ne'er be 

dead, 
Or long time take their memory quite 

away 20 

From us poor singers of an empty day. 

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due 

time, 
Why should I strive to set the crooked 

straight? 
Let it suffice me that my murmuring 

rhyme 
Beats with light wing against the ivory 

gate, _ 25 

Telling a tale not too importunate 



To those who in the sleepy region stay, 
Lulled by the singer of an empty day. 

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king 
At Christmas-tide such wondrous things 

did show, 30 

That through one window men beheld the 

spring, 
And through another saw the summer 

glow. 
And through a third the fruited vines a- 

row. 
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, 
Piped the drear wind of that December 

day. 

So with this Earthly Paradise it is. 
If ye will read aright, and pardon me, 
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss 
Midmost the beating of the steely sea. 
Where tossed about all hearts of men 

must be; 40 

Whose ravening monsters mighty men 

shall slay. 
Not the poor singer of an empty day. 

PROLOGUE 

Forget six counties overhung with 

smoke, 
Forget the snorting steam and piston 

stroke, 
Forget the spreading of the hideous town; 
Think rather of the pack-horse on the 

down, 
And dream of London, small, and white, 

and clean, 5 

The clear Thames bordered by its gardens 

green ; 
Think, that below bridge the green lapping 

waves 
Smite some few keels that bear Levantine 

staves, 
Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up 

hill, 
And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled 

to fill, 10 

And treasured scanty spice from some far 

sea, 
Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery. 
And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of 

Guienne ; 
While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey 

Chaucer's pen 



MORRIS 



747 



Moves over bills of lading — 'mid such 

times 1 5 

Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my 

rhymes. 
A nameless city in a distant sea, 
White as the changing walls of faerie, 
Thronged with much people clad in an- 
cient guise 
I now am fain to set before your eyes; 20 
There, leave the clear green water and 

the quays. 
And pass betwixt its marble palaces, 
Until ye come unto the chief est square; 
A bubbling conduit is set midmost there. 
And round about it now the maidens 

throng, 25 

With jest and laughter, and sweet broken 

song. 
Making but light of labor new begun 
While in their vessels gleams the morning 

sun. 
On one side of the square a temple 

stands. 
Wherein the gods worshipped in ancient 

lands 30 

Still have their altars ; a great market-place 
Upon two other sides fills all the space. 
And thence the busy hum of men comes 

forth; 
But on the cold side looking toward the 

north 
A pillared council-house may you behold, 
Within whose porch are images of gold, 36 
Gods of the nations who dwelt anciently 
About the borders of the Grecian sea. 
Pass now between them, push the brazen 

do6r. 
And standing on the polished marble floor 
Leave all the noises of the square behind; 
Most calm that reverent chamber shall 

ye find, 42 

Silent at first, but for the noise you made 
When on the brazen door your hand you 

laid 
To shut it after you, — but now behold 45 
The city rulers on their thrones of gold, 
Clad in most fair attire, and in their hands 
Long carven silver-banded ebony wands; 
Then from the dais drop your eyes and 

see 
Soldiers and peasants standing reverently 
Before those elders, round a little band 51 
Who bear such arms as guard the English 

land, 



But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and 

they. 
The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, 

and gray; 
And as they lean with pain upon their 

spears 55 

Their brows seem furrowed deep with 

more than years; 
For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes; 
Bent are they less with time than miseries. 

ATALANTA'S RACE 

Atalanta, daughter of King Schoeneus, not 
willing to lose her virgin's estate, made it a 
law to all suitors that they should run a race 
with her in the public place, and if they 
failed to overcome her should die unre- 
venged; and thus many brave men perished. 
At last came Milanion, the son of Amphi- 
damus, who, outrunning her with the help 
of Venus, gained the virgin and wedded 
her. 

Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter 
went. 

Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring 
day; 

But since his horn-tipped bow, but seldom 
bent. 

Now at the noontide naught had happed 
to slay. 

Within a vale he called his hounds away, 5 

Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice 
cling 

About the cliffs and through the beech- 
trees ring. 

But when they ended, still awhile he stood, 
And but the sweet familiar thrush could 

hear, 
And all the day-long noises of the wood, 10 
And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished 

year 
His hounds' feet pattering as they drew 

anear. 
And heavy breathing from their heads low 

hung. 
To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. 

Then smiling did he turn to leave the 
place, ^ 15 

But with his first step some new fleeting 
thought 

A shadow cast across his sunburnt face: 



748 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



I think the golden net that April brought 
From some warm world his wavering soul 

had caught; 
For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he 

go 20 

Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and 

slow. 

Yet howsoever slow he went, at last 

The trees grew sparser, and the wood was 
done; 

Whereon one farewell, backward look he 
cast, 

Then, turning roimd to see what place was 
won, 25 

With shaded eyes looked underneath the 
sun. 

And o'er green meads and new- turned fur- 
rows brown 

Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus' 
town. 

So thitherward he turned, and on each 
side 

The folk were busy on the teeming land, 30 

And man and maid from the brown fur- 
rows cried. 

Or midst the newly blossomed vines did 
stand, 

And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand 

Thought of the nodding of the well-filled 
ear, 

Or how the knife the heavy bunch should 
shear. 35 

Merry it was: about him sung the birds. 
The spring flowers bloomed along the firm 

dry road. 
The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp- 
horned herds 
Now for the barefoot milking-maidens 

lowed ; 
While from the freshness of his blue abode, 
Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget, 41 
The broad sun blazed, nor scattered 
plagues as yet. 

Through such fair things unto the gates 

he came, 
And found them open, as though peace 

were there; 
Wherethrough, unquestioned of his race or 

name, 45 

He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare. 



Which at the first of folk were wellnigh 

bare; 
But pressing on, and going more hastily, 
Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. 

Following the last of these, he still pressed 

on, 50 

Until an open space he came unto, 
Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost 

and won. 
For feats of strength folk there were wont 

to do. 
And now our hunter looked for something 

new, 
Because the whole wide space was bare, 

and stilled 55 

The high seats were, with eager people 

filled. 

There with the others to a seat he gat, 
Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 
'Neath which in fair array King Schoeneus 

sat 
Upon his throne with councillors thereby; 
And underneath his well-wrought seat and 

high, 61 

He saw a golden image of the Sun, 
A silver image of the Fleet-foot One. 

A brazen altar stood beneath their feet 
Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind; 
Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet 66 
Made ready even now his horn to wind. 
By whom a huge man held a sword, in- 
twined 
With yellow flowers; these stood a little 

space 
From off the altar, nigh the starting- 
place. 70 

And there two runners did the sign abide. 
Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and 

fair, 
Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs 

often tried 
In places where no man his strength may 

spare ; 
Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair 75 
A golden circlet of renown he wore. 
And in his hand an olive garland bore. 

But on this day with whom shall he con- 
tend? 
A maid stood by him like Diana clad 



MORRIS 



749 



When in the woods she lists her bow to 
bend, 80 

Too fair for one to look on and be glad, 
Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had. 
If he must still behold her from afar; 
Too fair to let the world live free from 
war. 

She seemed all earthly matters to for- 
get; 85 

Of all tormenting lines her face was clear. 

Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were 
set 

Calm and unmoved as though no soul 
were near. 

But her foe trembled as a man in fear. 

Nor from her loveliness one moment 
turned 90 

His anxious face with fierce desire that 
burned. 

Now through the hush there broke the 

trumpet's clang 
Just as the setting sun made eventide. 
Then from light feet a spurt of dust there 

sprang. 
And swiftly were they running side by 

side; _ _ 95 

But silent did the thronging folk abide 
Until the turning-post was reached at last. 
And round about it still abreast they 

passed. 

But when the people saw how close they 

ran. 
When half-way to the starting-point they 

were, 100 

A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man 
Headed the white-foot runner, and drew 

near 
Unto the very end of all his fear; 
And scarce his straining feet the ground 

could feel, 
And bliss unhoped-for o'er his heart 'gan 

steal. 105 

But midst the loud victorious shouts he 

heard 
Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the 

sound 
Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard 
His flushed and eager face he turned 

around, 
And even then he felt her past him bound 



Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her 
there m 

Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 

There stood she breathing like a little 

child 
Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, 
For no victorious joy her red lips 

smiled, 115 

Her cheek its wonted freshness did but 

keep ; 
No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and 

deep. 
Though some divine thought softened all 

her face 
As once more rang the trumpet through 

the place. 

But her late foe stopped short amidst his 

course, 120 

One moment gazed upon her piteously, 
Then with a groan his lingering feet did 

force 
To leave the spot whence he her eyes could 

see; 
And, changed like one who knows his 

time must be 
But short and bitter, without any word 125 
He knelt before the bearer of the sword; 

Then high rose up the gleaming deadly 

blade. 
Bared of its flowers, and through the 

crowded place 
Was silence now, and midst of it the 

maid 
Went by the poor wretch at a gentle 

pace, 130 

And he to hers upturned his sad white 

face; 
Nor did his eyes behold another sight 
Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. 



So was the pageant ended, and all folk 
Talking of this and that familiar thing 
In little groups from that sad concourse 
broke; 136 

For now the shrill bats were upon the 

wing. 
And soon dark night would slay the even- 
ing, 
And in dark gardens sang the nightingale 
Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. 140 



7SO 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



And with the last of all the hunter went, 
Who, wondering at the strange sight he 

had seen. 
Prayed an old man to tell him what it 

meant. 
Both why the vanquished man so slain 

had been, 
And if the maiden were an earthly queen. 
Or rather what much more she seemed to 

be, 146 

No sharer in the world's mortality. 

"Stranger," said he, "I pray she soon 

may die 
Whose lovely youth has slain so many an 

one! 
King Schoeneus' daughter is she verily, 1 50 
Who when her eyes first looked upon the 

sun 
Was fain to end her life but new begun. 
For he had vowed to leave but men alone 
Sprung from his loins when he from earth 

was gone. 

"Therefore he bade one leave her in the 

wood, 15s 

And let wild things deal with her as they 

might; 
But this being done, some cruel god 

thought good 
To save her beauty in the world's despite: 
Folk say that her, so dehcate and white 
As now she is, a rough root-grubbing 

bear 160 

Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did rear. 

"In course of time the woodfolk slew her 
nurse. 

And to their rude abode the youngling 
brought. 

And reared her up to be a kingdom's curse. 

Who, grown a woman, of no kingdom 
thought, 165 

But armed and swift, 'mid beasts destruc- 
tion wrought. 

Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to 
slay, 

To whom her body seemed an easy prey. 

" So to this city, led by fate, she came, 
Whom, known by signs, whereof I cannot 

tell, 1 70 

King Schoeneus for his child at last did 

claim ; 



Nor otherwhere since that day doth she 

dwell. 
Sending too many a noble soul to hell. — 
What! thine eyes glisten? what then, 

thinkest thou 
Her shining head unto the yoke to bow? 175 

"Listen, my son, and love some other 

maid, 
For she the saffron gown will never wear. 
And on no flower-strewn couch shall she 

be laid, 
Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's ear; 
Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear, 180 
Yea, rather, if thou lovest him utterly, 
Thou still may'st woo her ere thou com'st 

to die, 

"Like him that on this day thou sawest 

lie dead; 
For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one. 
The maid has vowed e'en such a man to 
wed 185 

As in the course her swift feet can out- 
run. 
But whoso fails herein, his days are done: 
He came the nighest that was slain to-day. 
Although with him I deem she did but 
play. 

"Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives 190 
To those that long to win her loveliness; 
Be wise! be sure that many a maid there 

lives 
Gentler than she, of beauty Uttle less. 
Whose swimming eyes thy loving words 

shall bless, 
When in some garden, knee set close to 

knee, 19S 

Thou sing'st the song that love may teach 

to thee." 

So to the hunter spake that ancient man, 

And left him for his own home presently; 

But he turned round, and through the 
moonlight wan 

Reached the thick wood, and there 'twixt 
tree and tree 200 

Distraught he passed the long night fever- 
ishly, 

'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn 
arose 

To wage hot war against his speechless 
foes. 



MORRIS 



751 



There to the hart's flank seemed his shaft 

to grow, 
As panting down the broad green glades he 

flew, 205 

There by his horn the Dryads well might 

know 
His thrust against the bear's heart had 

been true. 
And there Adonis' bane his javelin slew; 
But still in vain through rough and smooth 

he went. 
For none the more his restlessness was 

spent. 210 

So wandering, he to Argive cities came, 
And in the lists with valiant men he stood. 
And by great deeds he won him praise and 

fame. 
And heaps of wealth for little- valued blood ; 
But none of all these things, or life, seemed 

good _ ^ 215 

Unto his heart, where still unsatisfied 
A ravenous longing warred with fear and 

pride. 

Therefore it happed when but a month had 

gone 
Since he had left King Schoeneus' city old. 
In hunting-gear again, again alone 220 
The forest-bordered meads did he behold. 
Where still mid thoughts of August's quiv- 
ering gold 
Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the vine 

in trust 
Of faint October's purple-foaming must.^ 

And once again he passed the peaceful 
gate, _ 225 

While to his beating heart his lips did lie. 
That, owning not victorious love and fate, 
Said, half aloud, "And here too must I 

To win of alien men the mastery, 
And gather for my head fresh meed of 
fame, 230 

And cast new glory on my father's name." 

In spite of that, how beat his heart when 
first 

Folk said to him, "And art thou come to 
see 

That which still makes our city's name ac- 
cursed 

' new, unfermented wine. 



Among all mothers for its cruelty? 235 
Then know indeed that fate is good to 

thee. 
Because to-morrow a new luckless one 
Against the white-foot maid is pledged to 

run." 

So on the morrow with no curious eyes, 
As once he did, that piteous sight he saw, 
Nor did that wonder in his heart arise 241 
As toward the goal the conquering maid 

'gan draw. 
Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe, — 
Too full the pain of longing filled his heart 
For fear or wonder there to have a 

part. 245 

But O, how long the night was ere it went! 
How long it was before the dawn begun 
Showed to the wakening birds the sun's 

intent 
That not in darkness should the world be 

done ! 
And then, and then, how long before the 

sun 250 

Bade silently the toilers of the earth 
Get forth to fruitless cares or empty mirth ! 

And long it seemed that in the market- 
place 
He stood and saw the chaffering folk go 

by, 

Ere from the ivory throne King Schoeneus' 
face 25s 

Looked down upon the murmur royally; 

But then came trembling that the time 
was nigh 

When he midst pitying looks his love must 
claim, 

And jeering voices must salute his name. 

But as the throng he pierced to gain the 
throne, 260 

His alien face distraught and anxious 
told 

What hopeless errand he was bound upon, 

And, each to each, folk whispered to be- 
hold 

His godlike Hmbs; nay, and one woman 
old, 

As he went by, must pluck him by the 
sleeve 265 

And pray him yet that wretched love to 
leave. 



752 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



For sidling up she said, "Canst thou live 

twice, 
Fair son? Canst thou have joyful youth 

again, 
That thus thou goest to the sacrifice. 
Thyself the victim? Nay, then, all in 

vain 270 

Thy mother bore her longing and her pain, 
And one more maiden on the earth must 

dwell 
Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and hell. 

"O fool, thou knowest not the compact 

then 
That with the three-formed goddess she 

has made 275 

To keep her from the loving lips of men, 
And in no saffron gown to be arrayed, 
And therewithal with glory to be paid, 
And love of her the moonlit river sees 
White 'gainst the shadow of the formless 

trees. 280 

"Come back, and I myself will pray for 

thee 
Unto the sea-born framer of delights. 
To give thee her who on the earth may be 
The fairest stirrer-up to death and fights, 
To quench with hopeful days and joyous 

nights 285 

The flame that doth thy youthful heart 

consume: 
Come back, nor give thy beauty to the 

tomb." 

How should he listen to her earnest 
speech, — 

Words such as he not once or twice had 
said 

Unto himself, whose meaning scarce could 
reach 290 

The firm abode of that sad hardihead? 

He turned about, and through the market- 
stead 

Swiftly he passed, until before the throne 

In the cleared space he stood at last alone. 

Then said the king, "Stranger, what dost 
thou here? 295 

Have any of my folk done ill to thee? 

Or art thou of the forest men in fear? 

Or art thou of the sad fraternity 

Who still will strive my daughter's mates 
to be, 



Staking their lives to win to earthly bliss 300 
The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis?" 

"0 King," he said, "thou sayest the 

word indeed; 
Nor will I quit the strife till I have won 
My sweet delight, or death to end my need. 
And know that I am called Milanion, 305 
Of King Amphidamas the well-loved son; 
So fear not that to thy old name, O King, 
Much loss or shame my victory will 

bring." 

"Nay, Prince," said Schoeneus, "welcome 
to this land 

Thou wert indeed, if thou wert here to 
try _ 310 

Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty of 
his hand; 

Nor would we grudge thee well-won mas- 
tery. 

But now, why wilt thou come to me to 
die, 

And at my door lay down thy luckless 
head, 

Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, 

"Whose curses even now my heart doth 
fear? 316 

Lo, I am old, and know what life can be. 

And what a bitter thing is death anear. 

son! be wise, and hearken unto me; 

And if no other can be dear to thee, 320 

At least as now, yet is the world full 
wide. 

And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may 
hide: 

"But if thou losest life, then all is lost." 
"Nay, King," Milanion said, "thy words 

are vain. 
Doubt not that I have counted well the 

cost. 325 

But say, on what day wilt thou that I 

gain 
Fulfilled delight, or death to end my pain? 
Right glad were I if it could be to-day, 
And all my doubts at rest forever lay." 

" Nay," said King Schoeneus, " thus it shall 

not be, 330 

But rather shalt thou let a month go 

by, 
And weary with thy prayers for victory 



MORRIS 



753 



What god thou know'st the kindest and 

most nigh. 
So doing, still perchance thou shalt not die; 
And with my good- will wouldst thou have 

the maid, _ 335 

For of the equal^ gods I grow afraid. 

"And until then, O Prince, be thou my 

guest, 
And all these troublous things awhile for- 

get." 
"Nay," said he, "couldst thou give my 

soul good rest. 
And on mine head a sleepy garland set, 340 
Then had I 'scaped the meshes of the net, 
Nor shouldst thou hear from me another 

word; 
But now, make sharp thy fearful heading 

sword. 

"Yet will I do what son of man may do. 
And promise all the gods may most desire. 
That to myself I may at least be true; 346 
And on that day my heart and limbs so 

tire. 
With utmost strain and measureless desire, 
That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep 
When in the sunlight round that sword 

shall sweep." 350 

He went with that, nor anywhere would 

bide. 
But unto Argos restlessly did wend; 
And there, as one who lays all hope aside. 
Because the leech has said his life must end, 
Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend. 
And took his way unto the restless sea, 356 
For there he deemed his rest and help 

might be. 



Upon the shore of Argolis there stands 
A temple to the goddess that he sought. 
That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands,- 
Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath 
no thought, 361 

Though to no homestead there the sheaves 

are brought. 
No groaning press torments the close- 
clipped murk,'"* 
Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's 
work. 

• just. 2 Africa. 

' marc, what remains of grapes or other fruit after the 
juice has been pressed out. 



Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle- 
trees, 365 

Through the brass doors that guard the 
holy place. 

And, entering, hear the washing of the 
seas 

That twice a day rise high above the base. 

And, with the southwest urging them, 
embrace 

The marble feet of her that standeth there, 

That shrink not, naked though they be 
and fair. 371 

Small is the fane through which the sea- 
wind sings 
About Queen Venus' well-wrought image 

white ; 
But hung around are many precious things, 
The gifts of those who, longing for delight. 
Have hung them there within the goddess ' 
sight, 376 

And in return have taken at her hands 
The living treasures of the Grecian lands. 

And thither now has come Milanion, 

And showed unto the priests' wide-open 
eyes 380 

Gifts fairer than all those that there have 
shown, — 

Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fan- 
tasies, 

And bowls inscribed with sayings of the 
wise 

Above the deeds of foolish living things, 

And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. 385 

And now before the Sea-born One he 
stands, 

By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and 
soft; 

And while the incense trickles from his 
hands. 

And while the odorous smoke-wreaths 
hang aloft. 

Thus doth he pray to her: "0 Thou, who 
oft 39c 

Hast holpen man and maid in their dis- 
tress. 

Despise me not for this my wretchedness! 

"O goddess, among us who dwell below, 
Kings and great men, great for a little 

while. 
Have pity on the lowly heads that bow. 



754 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Nor hate the hearts that love them with- 
out guile; 396 

Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy 
smile 

A vain device of him who set thee here, 

An empty dream of some artificer? 

"O great one, some men love, and are 

ashamed; 400 

Some men are weary of the bonds of love; 
Yea, and by some men lightly art thou 

blamed. 
That from thy toils their lives they cannot 

move. 
And 'mid the ranks of men their manhood 

prove. 
Alas! O goddess, if thou slayest me 405 
What new immortal can I serve but thee? 

"Think then, will it bring honor to thy 

head 
If folk say, ' Everything aside he cast, 
And to all fame and honor was he dead. 
And to his one hope now is dead at last, 
Since all unholpen he is gone and past: 411 
Ah! the gods love not man, for certainly 
He to his helper did not cease to cry.' 

"Nay, but thou wilt help: they who died 

before 
Not single-hearted, as I deem, came here; 
Therefore unthanked they laid their gifts 

before 416 

Thy stainless feet, still shivering with 

their fear. 
Lest in their eyes their true thought might 

appear. 
Who sought to be the lords of that fair 

town. 
Dreaded of men and winners of renown. 420 

"0 Queen, thou knowest I pray not for 

this: 
Oh, set us down together in some place 
Where not a voice can break our heaven of 

bliss, 
Where naught but rocks and I can see her 

face. 
Softening beneath the marvel of thy 

grace, 425 

Where not a foot our vanished steps can 

track, — 
The golden age, the golden age come 

back! 



"0 fairest, hear me now, who do thy will, 
Plead for thy rebel that she be not slain, 
But live and love and be thy servant 

still : 430 

Ah! give her joy and take away my pain. 
And thus two long-enduring servants 

gain. 
An easy thing this is to do for me, 
What need of my vain words to weary 

thee? 

"But none the less this place will I not 
leave 435 

Until I needs must go my death to meet. 

Or at thy hands some happy sign re- 
ceive 

That in great joy we twain may one day 
greet 

Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet. 

Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all 
words, 440 

Victorious o'er our servants and our lords." 

Then from the altar back a space he drew. 
But from the Queen turned not his face 

away. 
But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue 
That arched the sky, at ending of the day. 
Was turned to ruddy gold and changing 
gray, _ _ 446 

And clear, but low, the nigh-ebbed wind- 
less sea 
In the still evening murmured ceaselessly. 

And there he stood when all the sun was 
down ; 

Nor had he moved when the dim golden 
light, 450 

Like the far luster of a godlike town. 

Had left the world to seeming hopeless 
night; 

Nor would he move the more when wan 
moonlight 

Streamed through the pillars for a little 
while. 

And lighted up the white Queen's change- 
less smile. 455 

Naught noted he the shallow flowing sea. 
As step by step it set the wrack^ a-swim; 
The yellow torchlight nothing noted he 
Wherein with fluttering gown and half- 
bared limb 

• sea-weed cast ashore by the waves. 



MORRIS 



755 



The temple damsels sung their midnight 
hymn; 460 

And naught the doubled stillness of the 
fane 

When they were gone and all was hushed 
again. 

But when the waves had touched the 

marble base, 
And steps the fish swim over twice a day, 
The dawn beheld him sunken in his 

place 46s 

Upon the floor; and sleeping there he lay. 
Not heeding aught the little jets of spray 
The roughened sea brought nigh, across 

him cast. 
For as one dead all thought from him had 

passed. 

Yet long before the sun had show^ed his 

head, 470 

Long ere the varied hangings on the 

wall 
Had gained once more their blue and green 

and red, 
He rose as one some well-known sign doth 

call 
When war upon the city's gates doth fall. 
And scarce like one fresh risen out of 

sleep, _ _ 475 

He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. 

Then he turned round; not for the sea- 
gull's cry 

That wheeled above the temple in his 
flight, 

Not for the fresh south-wind that lovingly 

Breathed on the new-born day and dying 
night, 480 

But some strange hope 'twixt fear and 
great delight 

Drew round his face, now flushed, now 
pale and wan. 

And still constrained his eyes the sea to 
scan. 

Now a faint light lit up the southern 

sky,— 
Not sun or moon, for all the world was 

gray, _ 485 

But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew 

anigh, 
Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay 
As toward the temple still it took its way, 



And still grew greater, till Milanion 
Saw naught for dazzling light that round 
him shone. 490 

But as he staggered with his arms out- 
spread, 

Delicious unnamed odors breathed around ; 

For languid happiness he bowed his head. 

And with wet eyes sank down upon the 
ground. 

Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he 
found 495 

To give him reason for that happiness, 

Or make him ask more knowledge of his 
bliss. 

At last his eyes were cleared, and he could 

see 
Through happy tears the goddess face to 

face 
With that faint image of divinity, 500 
Whose well-wrought smile and dainty 

changeless grace 
Until that morn so gladdened all the place ; 
Then he unwitting cried aloud her name, 
And covered up his eyes for fear and 

shame. 

But through the stillness he her voice 
could hear 505 

Piercing his heart with joy scarce bear- 
able. 

That said, "Milanion, wherefore dost 
thou fear? 

I am not hard to those who love me well; 

List to what I a second time will tell. 

And thou mayest hear perchance, and 
live to save 510 

The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. 

" See, by my feet three golden apples lie, — 
Such fruit among the heavy roses falls. 
Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully 
Store up within the best loved of my 

walls, 515 

Ancient Damascus, where the lover calls 
Above my unseen head, and faint and 

light 
The rose-leaves flutter round me in the 

night. 

"And note that these are not alone most 

fair 
With heavenly gold, but longing strange 

they bring 520 

Unto the hearts of men, who will not care, 



756 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Beholding these, for any once-loved thing 
Till round the shining sides their fingers 

ding. 
And thou shalt see thy well-girt swiftfoot 

maid 
By sight of these amid her glory stayed. 

"For bearing these within a scrip with 
thee, 526 

When first she heads thee from the starting- 
place 
Cast down the first one for her eyes to see. 
And when she turns aside make on apace, 
And if again she heads thee in the race 
Spare not the other two to cast aside 531 
If she not long enough behind will bide. 

"Farewell, and when has come the happy 

time 
That she Diana's raiment must unbind, 
And all the world seems blessed with 

Saturn's clime, 535 

And thou with eager arms about her 

twined 
Beholdest first her gray eyes growing 

kind. 
Surely, O trembler, thou shalt scarcely 

then 
Forget the Helper of unhappy men." 

Milanion raised his head at this last 
word, 540 

For now so soft and kind she seemed to be 
No longer of her godhead was he feared ; 
Too late he looked, for nothing could he 

see 
But the white image ghmmering doubtfully 
In the departing twilight cold and gray, 
And those three apples on the steps that 
lay. 546 

These then he caught up, quivering with 
delight. 

Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream. 

And though aweary with the watchful 
night. 

And sleepless nights of longing, still did 
deem 5 so 

He could not sleep; but yet the first sun- 
beam 

That smote the fane across the heaving 
deep 

Shone on him laid in calm untroubled 
sleep. 



But little ere the noontide did he rise. 
And why he felt so happy scarce could 

tell ^ _ 555 

Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. 
Then, leaving the fair place where this 

befell. 
Oft he looked back as one who loved it 

well. 
Then homeward to the haunts of men 'gan 

wend 
To bring all things unto a happy end. 560 



Now has the lingering month at last gone 

by, 
Again are all folk around the running- 
place. 
Nor other seems the dismal pageantry 
Than heretofore, but that another face 
Looks o'er the smooth course ready for 
the race, 565 

For now, beheld of all, Milanion 
Stands on the spot he twice has looked 
upon. 

But yet — what change is this that holds 

the maid? 
Does she indeed see in his gHttering eye 
More than disdain of the sharp shearing 

blade, 570 

Some happy hope of help and victory? 
The others seemed to say, "We come to 

die; 
Look down upon us for a little while, 
That, dead, we may bethink us of thy 

smile." 

But he — what look of mastery was this 575 

He cast on her? Why were his lips so red? 

Why was his face so flushed with happi- 
ness? 

So looks not one who deems himself but 
dead. 

E'en if to death he bows a willing head; 

So rather looks a god well pleased to find 

Some earthly damsel fashioned to his 
'mind. 581 

Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, 
And even as she casts adown her eyes 
Redden to note his eager glance of praise, 
And wish that she were clad in other 
guise? 585 

Why must the memory to her heart arise 



MORRIS 



1S1 



Of things unnoticed when they first were 
heard, 

Some lover's song, some answering maid- 
en's word? 

What makes these longings, vague, with- 
out a name, 

And this vain pity never felt before, 590 

This sudden languor, this contempt of 
fame. 

This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, 

These doubts that grow each minute more 
and more? 

Why does she tremble as the time grows 
near, 

And weak defeat and woful victory fear? 

But while she seemed to hear her beating 

heart, 596 

Above their heads the trumpet blast 

rang out, 
And forth they sprang; and she must play 

her part. 
Then flew her white feet, knowing not a 

doubt. 
Though, slackening once, she turned her 

head about, 600 

But then she cried aloud and faster fled 
Than e'er before, and all men deemed him 

dead. 

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, 
And thence what seemed a ray of light 

there flew 
And past the maid rolled on along the 

sand; 605 

Then trembling she her feet together 

drew, 
And in her heart a strong desire there 

grew 
To have the toy: some god she thought 

had given 
That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. 

Then from the course with eager steps she 
ran, 610 

And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. 
But when she turned again, the great- 
limbed man 
Now well ahead she failed not to behold, 
And, mindful of her glory waxing cold. 
Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit. 
Though with one hand she touched the 
golden fruit. 616 



Note, too, the bow that she was wont to 

bear 
She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize. 
And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair 
Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 
Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 621 
She sprang to head the strong Milanion, 
Who now the turning-post had wellnigh 

won. 

But as he set his mighty hand on it, 
White fingers underneath his own were laid. 
And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did 

flit; 626 

Then he the second fruit cast by the maid. 
But she ran on awhile, then as afraid 
Wavered and stopped, and turned and 

made no stay 
Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 

Then, as a troubled glance she cast 
around, 631 

Now far ahead the Argive could she see. 

And in her garment's hem one hand she 
wound 

To keep the double prize, and strenuously 

Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had 
she 635 

To win the day, though now but scanty 
space 

Was left betwixt him and the winning- 
place. 

Short was the way unto such winged feet; 
Quickly she gained upon him, till at 

last 
He turned about her eager eyes to meet, 
And from his hand the third fair apple 

cast. 641 

She wavered not, but turned and ran so 

fast 
After the prize that should her bliss fulfil. 
That in her hand it lay ere it was still. 

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win 
Once more an unblest woful victory — 646 
And yet — and yet — why does her breath 

begin 
To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? 
Why fails she now to see if far or nigh 
The goal is? Why do her gray eyes grow 

dim? 650 

Why do these tremors run through every 

limb? 



75^ 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



She spreads her arms abroad some stay 

to find, 
Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, 
A strong man's arms about her body 

twined. 654 

Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, 
So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss; 
Made happy that the foe the prize hath 

won, 
She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. 



Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts ! 
Upon the brazen altar break the sword, 660 
And scatter incense to appease the ghosts 
Of those who died here by their own award. 
Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, 
And her who unseen o'er the runners hung. 
And did a deed forever to be sung. 665 

Here are the gathered folk, make no delay; 
Open King Schoeneus' well-filled treasury, 
Bring out the gifts long hid from light of 

day,— 
The golden bowls o'erwrought with 

imagery. 
Gold chains, and unguents brought from 

over sea, 670 

The saffron gown the old Phoenician 

brought, 
Within the temple of the goddess wrought. 

O ye, O damsels, who shall never see 
Her, that Love 's servant bringeth now to 

you. 
Returning from another victory, 675 

In some cool bower do all that now is due! 
Since she in token of her service new 
Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, — 
Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. 



THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS 

Had she come all the way for this. 
To part at last without a kiss? 
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain 
That her own eyes might see him slain 
Beside the haystack in the floods? 5 

Along the dripping leafless woods. 
The stirrup touching either shoe. 
She rode astride as troopers do; 
With kirtle kilted to her knee, 



To which the mud splashed wretchedly; 10 
And the wet dripped from every tree 
Upon her head and heavy hair, 
And on her eyelids broad and fair; 
The tears and rain ran down her face. 

By fits and starts they rode apace, 15 

And very often was his place 
Far off from her; he had to ride 
Ahead, to see what might betide 
When the roads crossed; and sometimes, 

when 
There rose a murmuring from his men, 20 
Had to turn back with promises; 
Ah me! she had but little ease; 
And often for pure doubt and dread 
She sobbed, made giddy in the head 
By the swift riding; while, for cold, 25 
Her slender fingers scarce could hold 
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too. 
She felt the foot within her shoe 
Against the stirrup: all for this, 
To part at last without a kiss 30 

Beside the haystack in the floods. 

For when they neared that old soaked hay, 
They saw across the only way 
That Judas, Godmar, and the three 
Red running lions dismally 35 

Grinned from his pennon, under which 
In one straight line along the ditch. 
They counted thirty heads. 

So then, 
While Robert turned round to his men. 
She saw at once the wretched end, 40 
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend 
Her coif the wrong way from her head. 
And hid her eyes; while Robert said: 
"Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one; 
At Poictiers where we made them run 45 
So fast — why, sweet my love, good cheer. 
The Gascon frontier is so near, 
Nought after us." 

But, "O," she said, 
"My God! my God! I have to tread 
The long way back without you; then 50 
The court at Paris; those six men; 
The gratings of the Chatelet; 
The swift Seine on some rainy day 
Like this, and people standing by, 
And laughing, while my weak hands try 55 
To recollect how strong men swim. 



MORRIS 



759 



All this, or else a life with him, 

For which I should be damned at last; 

Would God that this next hour were past ! " 

He answered not, but cried his cry, 60 
"St. George for Marny!" cheerily; 
And laid his hand upon her rein. 
Alas! no man of all his train 
Gave back that cheery cry again; 
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast 65 
Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast 
About his neck a kerchief long, 
And bound him. 

Then they went along 
To Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane, 
Your lover's life is on the wane 70 

So fast, that, if this very hour 
You yield not as my paramour, 
He will not see the rain leave oflf— 
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff. 
Sir Robert, or I slay you now." 75 

She laid her hand upon her brow, 
Then gazed upon the palm, as though 
She thought her forehead bled, and — 

"No," 
She said, and turned her head away. 
As there were nothing else to say, 80 

And everything were settled: red 
Grew Godmar's face from chin to head: 
"Jehane, on yonder hill there stands 
My castle, guarding well my lands: 
What hinders rne from taking you, 85 
And doing that I list to do 
To your fair wilful body, while 
Your knight lies dead?" 

A wicked smile 
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, 
A long way out she thrust her chin: 90 
"You know that I should strangle you 
While you were sleeping; or bite through 
Your throat, by God's help — ah! " she said, 
"Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid! 
For in such wise they hem me in, 95 

I cannot choose but sin and sin, 
Whatever happens : yet I think 
They could not make me eat or drink. 
And so should I just reach my rest." 
"Nay, if you do not my behest, 100 

O Jehane! though I love you well," 
Said Godmar, "would I fail to tell 
All that I know?" "Foul lies," she said. 



"Eh ; lies, my Jehane? by God's head, 
At J aris folks would deem them true! 105 
Do /ou know, Jehane, they cry for you: 
' Je lane the brown! Jehane the brown! 
Gi^ e us Jehane to burn or drown ! ' — 
Eh— gag me Robert! — sweet my friend. 
This were indeed a piteous end no 

For those long fingers, and long feet. 
And long neck, and smooth shoulders 

sweet; 
An end that few men would forget 
That saw it— So, an hour yet: 
Consider, Jehane, which to take 115 

Of life or death!" 

So, scarce awake. 
Dismounting, did she leave that place, 
And totter some yards: with her face 
Turned upward to the sky she lay. 
Her head on a wet heap of hay, 120 

And fell asleep: and while she slept, 
And did not dream, the minutes crept 
Round to the twelve again; but she. 
Being waked at last, sighed quietly. 
And strangely childlike came, and said: 125 
" I will not." Straightway Godmar's head, 
As though it hung on strong wires, turned 
Most sharply round, and his face burned. 

For Robert — both his eyes were dry. 
He could not weep, but gloomily 130 
He seemed to watch the rain; yea, too. 
His lips were firm; he tried once more 
To touch her lips; she reached out, sore 
And vain desire so tortured them. 
The poor gray lips, and now the hem 135 
Of his sleeve brushed them. 

With a start 
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart; 
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands 
Of silk and mail; with empty hands 
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw, 140 
The long bright blade without a flaw 
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand 
In Robert's hair; she saw him bend 
Back Robert's head; she saw him send 
The thin steel down ; the blow told well, 145 
Right backward the knight Robert fell. 
And moaned as dogs do, being half dead, 
Unwitting, as I deem: so then 
Godmar turned grinning to his men, 
Who ran, some five or six, and beat 150 
His head to pieces at their feet. 



760 



THE MCTORIAN AGE 



Then Godmar turned again and said:-^ 
"So, Jehane, the first fitte is read! \ 
Take note, my lady, that your way \ 
Lies backward to the Chatelet!" 155 

She shook her head and gazed awhile 
At her cold hands with a rueful smile, 
As though this thing had made her mad. 

This was the parting that they had 
Beside the haystack in the floods. 160 

WALTER HORATIO PATER 
(183^1894) 

STYLE 

Since all progress of mind consists for 
the most part in differentiation, in the 
resolution of an obscure and complex 
object into its component aspects, it is 
surely the stupidest of losses to confuse 
things which right reason has put asun- 
der, to lose the sense of achieved distinc- 
tions, the distinction between poetry 
and prose, for instance, or, to speak more 
exactly, between the laws and char- [10 
acteristic excellences of verse and prose 
composition. On the other hand, those 
who have dwelt most emphatically on the 
distinction between prose and verse, 
prose and poetry, may sometimes have 
been tempted to limit the proper func- 
tions of prose too narrowly; and this 
again is at least false economy, as being, 
in effect, the renunciation of a certain 
means or faculty, in a world where [20 
after all we must needs make the most of 
things. Critical efforts to limit art a 
priori, by anticipations regarding the 
natural incapacity of the material with 
which this or that artist works, as the 
sculptor with solid form, or the prose- 
writer with the ordinary language of 
men, are always liable to be discredited 
by the facts of artistic production; and 
while prose is actually found to be a [30 
colored thing with Bacon, picturesque 
with Livy and Carlyle, musical with 
Cicero and Newman, mystical and inti- 
mate with Plato and Michelet and Sir 
Thomas Browne, exalted or florid, it may 
be, with Milton and Taylor, it will be 
useless to protest that it can be nothing 
at all, except something very tamely and 



narrowly confined to mainly practical 
ends — a kind of "good round-hand;" [40 
as useless as the protest that poetry 
might not touch prosaic subjects as with 
Wordsworth, or an abstruse matter as 
with Browning, or treat contemporary 
life nobly as with Tennyson. In subor- 
dination to one essential beauty in all 
good literary style, in all literature as a 
fine art, as there are many beauties of 
poetry so the beauties of prose are many, 
and it is the business of criticism to [50 
estimate them as such; as it is good in 
the criticism of verse to look for those 
hard, logical and quasi-prosaic excellences 
which that too has, or needs. To find 
in the poem, amid the flowers, the al- 
lusions, the mixed perspectives, of Lycidas 
for instance, the thought, the logical 
structure: — how wholesome! how de- 
lightful! as to identify in prose what 
we call the poetry, the imaginative [60 
power, not treating it as out of place 
and a kind of vagrant intruder, but by 
way of an estimate of its rights, that is, 
of its achieved powers, there. 

Dryden, with the characteristic in- 
stinct of his age, loved to emphasize the 
distinction between poetry and prose, the 
protest against their confusion with each 
other coming with somewhat diminished 
effect from one whose poetry was so [70 
prosaic. In truth, his sense of prosaic 
excellence affected his verse rather than 
his prose, which is not only fervid, richly 
figured, poetic, as we say, but vitiated, 
all unconsciously, by many a scanning 
line. Setting up correctness, that hum- 
ble merit of prose, as the central literary 
excellence, he is really a less correct 
writer than he may seem, still with an 
imperfect mastery of the relative pro- [80 
noun. It might have been foreseen that, 
in the rotations of mind, the province 
of poetry in prose would find its assertor; 
and, a century after Dryden, amid very 
different intellectual needs, and with the 
i need therefore of great modifications in 
I literary form, the range of the poetic 
j force in literature was effectively en- 
I larged by Wordsworth. The true dis- 
! tinction between prose and poetry he [90 
I regarded as the almost technical or ac- 
j cidental one of the absence or presence 



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of metrical beauty, or, say! metrical re- 
straint; and for him the opposition came 
to be between verse and prose of course; 
but, as the essential dichotomy in this 
matter, between imaginative and unim- 
aginative writing, parallel to De Quin- 
cey's distinction between "the literature 
of power and the literature of knowl- [100 
edge," in the former of which the com- 
poser gives us not fact, but his peculiar 
sense of fact, whether past or present. 

Dismissing then, under sanction of 
Wordsworth, that harsher opposition of 
poetry to prose, as savoring in fact of the 
arbitrary psychology of the last century, 
and with it the prejudice that there can 
be but one only beauty of prose style, I 
propose here to point out certain qual- [no 
ities of all literature as a fine art, which, 
if they apply to the literature of fact, 
apply still more to the literature of the 
imaginative sense of fact, while they ap- 
ply indifferently to verse and prose, so far 
as either is really imaginative — certain 
conditions of true art in both alike, which 
conditions may also contain in them the 
secret of the proper discrimination and 
guardianship of the peculiar excel- [120 
lences of either. 

The line between fact and something 
quite different from external fact is, in- 
deed, hard to draw. In Pascal, for in- 
stance, in the persuasive writers generally, 
how difl&cult to define the point where, 
from time to time, argument which, if 
it is to be worth anything at all, must 
consist of facts or groups of facts, be- 
comes a pleading — a theorem no [130 
longer, but essentially an appeal to the 
reader to catch the writer's spirit, to 
think with him, if one can or will — an 
expression no longer of fact but of his 
sense of it, his peculiar intuition of a 
world prospective, or discerned below 
the faulty conditions of the present, in 
either case changed somewhat from the 
actual world. In science, on the other 
hand, in history so far as it conforms [140 
to scientific rule, we have a literary do- 
main where the imagination may be 
thought to be always an intruder. And 
as, in all science, the functions of liter- 
ature reduce themselves eventually to 
the transcribing of fact, so all the excel- 



lences of literary form in regard to science 
are reducible to various kinds of pains- 
taking; this good quality being involved 
in all "skilled work" whatever, in [150 
the drafting of an act of parliament, as 
in sewing. Yet here again, the writer's 
sense of fact, in history especially, and 
in all those complex subjects which do 
but lie on the borders of science, will still 
take the place of fact, in various de- 
grees. Your historian, for instance, with 
absolutely truthful intention, amid the 
multitude of facts presented to him 
must needs select, and in selecting [160 
assert something of his own humor, some- 
thing that comes not of the world without 
but of a vision within. So Gibbon moulds 
his imwieldy material to a preconceived 
view. Livy, Tacitus, Michelet, moving 
full of poignant sensibility amid the 
records of the past, each, after his own 
sense, modifies — who can tell w^here and 
to what degree? — and becomes some- 
thing else than a transcriber; each, as [170 
he thus modifies, passing into the domain 
of art proper. For just in proportion 
as the writer's aim, consciously or un- 
consciously, comes to be the transcribing, 
not of the world, not of mere fact, but 
of his sense of it, he becomes an artist, 
his work fine art; and good art (as I 
hope ultimately to show) in proportion 
to the truth of his presentment of that 
sense; as in those humbler or plainer [180 
fimctions of Hterature also, truth — truth 
to bare fact, there — -is the essence of 
such artistic quality as they may have. 
Truth! there can be no merit, no craft 
at all, without that. And further, all 
beauty is in the long nm only fineness 
of truth, or what we call ex-pression, the 
finer accommodation of speech to that 
vision within. 

— The transcript of his sense of fact [190 
rather than the fact, as being preferable, 
pleasanter, more beautiful to the writer 
himself. In literature, as in every other 
product of human skill, in the moulding 
of a bell or a platter for instance, wher- 
ever this sense asserts itself, wherever 
the producer so modifies his work as, 
over and above its primary use or inten- 
tion, to make it pleasing (to himself, 
of course, in the first instance) there, [200 



762 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



"fine" as opposed to merely serviceable 
art, exists. Literary art, that is, like 
all art which is in any way imitative or 
reproductive of fact — form, or color, or 
incident — is the representation of such 
fact as connected with soul, of a specific 
personaHty, in its preferences, its volition 
and power. 

Such is the matter of imaginative or 
artistic literature — this transcript, not [210 
of mere fact, but of fact in its infinite va- 
riety, as modified by human preference 
in all its infinitely varied forms. It will 
be good literary art not because it is 
brilliant or sober, or rich, or impulsive, 
or severe, but just in proportion as its 
representation of that sense, that soul- 
fact, is true, verse being only one de- 
partment of such literature, and im- 
aginative prose, it may be thought, [220 
being the special art of the modern world. 
That imaginative prose should be the 
special and opportune art of the modem 
world results from two important facts 
about the latter: first, the chaotic va- 
riety and complexity of its interests, 
making the intellectual issue, the really 
master currents of the present time in- 
calculable — a condition of mind little 
susceptible of the restraint proper to [230 
verse form, so that the most character- 
istic verse of the nineteenth century has 
been lawless verse; and secondly, an all- 
pervading naturalism, a curiosity about 
everything whatever as it really is, in- 
volving a certain humility of attitude, 
cognate to what must, after all, be the 
less ambitious form of literature. And 
prose thus asserting itself as the special 
and privileged artistic faculty of the [240 
present day, will be, however critics may 
try to narrow its scope, as varied in its 
excellence as humanity itself reflecting 
on the facts of its latest experience — 
an instrument of many stops, meditative, 
observant, descriptive, eloquent, analytic, 
plaintive, fervid. Its beauties will be not 
exclusively "pedestrian:" it will exert, 
in due measure, all the varied charms 
of poetry, down to the rhythm which, [250 
as in Cicero, or Michelet, or Newman, at 
their best, gives its musical value to 
every syllable. 

The literary artist is of necessity a 



scholar, and in what he proposes to do 
will have in mind, first of all, the scholar 
and the scholarly conscience — the male 
conscience in this matter, as we must 
think it, under a system of education 
which still to so large an extent limits [260 
real scholarship to men. In his self- 
criticism, he supposes always that sort 
of reader who will go (full of eyes) warily, 
considerately, though without considera- 
tion for him, over the ground which the 
female conscience traverses so lightly, so 
amiably. For the material in which he 
works is no more a creation of his own than 
the sculptor's marble. Product of a 
myriad various minds and contend- [270 
ing tongues, compact of obscure and 
minute association, a language has its own 
abundant and often recondite laws, in 
the habitual and summary recognition 
of which scholarship consists. A writer, 
full of a matter he is before all things 
anxious to express, may think of those 
laws, the limitations of vocabulary, struc- 
ture, and the like, as a restriction, but 
if a real artist, will find in them an [280 
opportunity. His punctiUous observance 
of the proprieties of his medium will 
diffuse through all he writes a general 
air of sensibility, of refined usage. Ex- 
clusiones debitae naturae — the exclusions, 
or rejections, which nature demands — 
we know how large a part these play, 
according to Bacon, in the science of 
nature. In a somewhat changed sense, 
we might say that the art of the [290 
scholar is summed up in the observance 
of those rejections demanded by the na- 
ture of his medium, the material he must 
use. AHve to the value of an atmos- 
phere in which every term finds its utmost 
degree of expression, and with all the 
jealousy of a lover of words, he will resist 
a constant tendency on the part of the 
majority of those who use them to efface 
the distinctions of language, the [300 
facility of writers often reinforcing in this 
respect the work of the vulgar. He will 
feel the obligation not of the laws only, 
but of those aflGinities, avoidances, those 
mere preferences, of his language, which 
through the associations of literary his- 
tory have become a part of its nature, 
prescribing the rejection of many a 



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763 



neology, many a license, many a gipsy 
phrase which might present itself as [310 
actually expressive. His appeal, again, 
is to the scholar, who has great experience 
in literature, and will show no favor to 
short-cuts, or hackneyed illustration, or 
an affectation of learning designed for the 
unlearned. Hence a contention, a sense* 
of self-restraint and renunciation, having 
for the susceptible reader the effect of a 
challenge for minute consideration; the 
attention of the writer, in every [320 
minutest detail, being a pledge that it is 
worth the reader's while to be attentive 
too, that the writer is dealing scrupulously 
with his instrument, and therefore, in- 
directly, with the reader himself also, 
that he has the science of the instru- 
ment he plays on, perhaps, after all, with 
a freedom which in such case will be the 
freedom of a master. 

For meanwhile, braced only by [330 
those restraints, he is really vindicating 
his liberty in the making of a vocabulary, 
an entire system of composition, for him- 
self, his own true manner; and when we 
speak of the manner of a true master 
we mean what is essential in his art. 
Pedantry being only the scholarship of 
le cuistre (we have no English equiva- 
lent), he is no pedant, and does but show 
his intelligence of the rules of Ian- [340 
guage in his freedoms with it, addition 
or expansion, which like the spontaneities 
of manner in a well-bred person will 
still further illustrate good taste. — The 
right vocabulary! Translators have not 
invariably seen how all-important that 
is in the work of translation, driving for 
the most part at idiom or construction; 
whereas, if the original be first-rate, 
one's care should be with its elemen- [350 
tary particles, Plato, for instance, being 
often reproducible by an exact following, 
with no variation in structure, of word 
after word, as the pencil follows a draw- 
ing under tracing-paper, so only each 
word or syllable be not of false color, to 
change my illustration a little. 

Well! that is because any writer worth 
translating at all has winnowed and 
searched through his vocabulary, is [360 
conscious of the words he would select 
in systematic reading of a dictionary, and 



still more of the words he would reject 
were the dictionary other than John- 
son's; and doing this with his peculiar 
sense of the world ever in view, in search 
of an instrument for the adequate expres- 
sion of that, he begets a vocabulary 
faithful to the coloring of his own spirit, 
and in the strictest sense original. [370 
That living authority which language 
needs lies, in truth, in its scholars, who, 
recognizing always that every language 
possesses a genius, a very fastidious 
genius, of its own, expand at once and 
purify its very elements, which must 
needs change along with the changing 
thoughts of living people. Ninety years 
ago, for instance, great mental force, 
certainly, was needed by Wordsworth, [380 
to break through the consecrated poetic 
associations of a century, and speak the 
language that was his, that was to become 
in a measure the language of the next 
generation. But he did it with the tact 
of a scholar also. English, for a quarter 
of a century past, has been assimilating 
the phraseology of pictorial art; for half 
a century, the phraseology of the great 
German metaphysical movement of [390 
eighty years ago; in part also the lan- 
guage of mystical theology: and none but 
pedants will regret a great consequent 
increase of its resources. For many 
years to come its enterprise may well 
lie in the naturalization of the vocabu- 
lary of science, so only it be under the 
eye of sensitive scholarship — in a lib- 
eral naturalization of the ideas of science 
too, for after all, the chief stimulus of [400 
good style is to possess a full, rich, com- 
plex matter to grapple with. The lit- 
erary artist, therefore, will be well aware 
of physical science; science also attain- 
ing, in its turn, its true literary ideal. 
And then, as the scholar is nothing with- 
out the historic sense, he wall be apt to 
restore not really obsolete or really worn- 
out words, but the finer edge of words 
still in use: ascertain, communicate, [410 
discover — words like these it has been part 
of our "business" to misuse. And still, 
as language was made for man, he will 
be no authority for correctnesses which, 
limiting freedom of utterance, were yet 
but accidents in their origin; as if one 



764 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



vowed not to say "1/5," which ought to 
have been in Shakespeare, "his'" and 
"hersj'^ for inanimate objects, being but 
a barbarous and really inexpressive [420 
survival. Yet we have known many 
things Uke this. Racy Saxon mono- 
syllables, close to us as touch and sight, 
he will intermix readily with those long, 
savorsome, Latin words, rich in "second 
intention." In this late day certainly, no 
critical process can be conducted rea- 
sonably without eclecticism. Of such 
eclecticism we have a justifying example 
in one of the first poets of our time. [430 
How illustrative of monosyllabic effect, 
of sonorous Latin, of the phraseology of 
science, of metaphysic, of colloquialism 
even, are the writings of Tennyson; yet 
with what a fine, fastidious scholarship 
throughout ! 

A scholar wTiting for the scholarly, 
he will of course leave something to the 
willing intelligence of his reader. "To 
go preach to the first passer-by," says [440 
Montaigne, "to become tutor to the ig- 
norance of the first I meet, is a thing I 
abhor;" a thing, in fact, naturally dis- 
tressing to the scholar, who will there- | 
fore ever be shy of offering uncompli- j 
mentary assistance to the reader's wit. 
To really strenuous minds there is a 
pleasurable stimulus in the challenge for 
a continuous effort on their part, to be 
rewarded by securer and more inti- [450 
mate grasp of the author's sense. Self- 
restraint, a skilful economy of means, 
ascesis, that too has a beauty of its own; 
and for the reader supposed, there will 
be an aesthetic satisfaction in that frugal 
closeness of style which makes the most 
of a word, in the exaction from every 
sentence of a precise relief, in the just 
spacing out of words to thought, in the 
logically filled space connected always [460 
with the delightful sense of difficulty 
overcome. 

Different classes of persons, at differ- 
ent times, make, of course, very various 
demands upon literature. Still, scholars, 
I suppose, and not only scholars, but all 
disinterested lovers of books, will always 
look to it, as to all other fine art, for a 
refuge, a sort of cloistral refuge, from a 
certain vulgarity in the actual world. [470 



A perfect poem like Lycidas, a perfect 
fiction like Esmond, the perfect handling 
of a theory like Newman's Idea of a Uni- 
versity, has for them something of the 
uses of a religious "retreat." Here, then, 
with a view to the central need of a select 
few, those "men of a finer thread" who 
have formed and maintain the literary 
ideal, everything, every component ele- 
ment will have undergone exact trial, [480 
and, above all, there will be no unchar- 
acteristic or tarnished or vulgar decora- 
tion, permissible ornament being for the 
most part structural, or necessary. As 
the painter in his picture, so the artist in 
his book, aims at the production by 
honorable artifice of a peculiar atmos- 
phere. "The artist," says Schiller, "may 
be known rather by what he omits;'''' 
and in literature, too, the true artist [490 
may be best recognized by his tact of 
omission. For to the grave reader words 
too are grave; and the ornamental word, 
the figure, the accessory form or color or 
reference, is rarely content to die to 
thought precisely at the right moment, 
but will inevitably linger awhile, stirring 
a long "brain-wave" behind it of per- 
haps quite alien associations. 

Just there, it may be, is the detri- [500 
mental tendency of the sort of scholarly 
attentiveness of mind I am recommend- 
ing. But the true artist allows for it. He 
will remember that, as the very word 
ornament indicates what is in itself non- 
essential, so the "one beauty" of all lit- 
erary style is of its very essence, and 
independent, in prose and verse ahke, of 
all removable decoration; that it may ex- 
ist in its fullest luster, as in Flaubert's [510 
Madame Bovary, for instance, or in 
Stendhal's Le Rouge et Le Noir, in a 
composition utterly unadorned, with 
hardly a single suggestion of visibly 
beautiful things. Parallel, allusion, the 
allusive way generally, the flowers in the 
garden: — he knows the narcotic force 
of these upon the negligent intelligence 
to which any diversion, literally, is wel- 
come, any vagrant intruder, because [520 
one can go wandering away with it from 
the immediate subject. Jealous, if he 
have a really quickening motive within, 
of all that does not hold directly to that, 



PATER 



76s 



of the facile, the otiose, he will never de- 
part from the strictly pedestrian process, 
unless he gains a ponderable something 
thereby. Even assured of its congruity, 
he will still question its serviceableness. 
Is it worth while, can we afford, to at- [530 
tend to just that, to just that figure or 
literary reference, just then? — Surplus- 
age! he will dread that, as the runner 
on his muscles. For in truth all art 
does but consist in the removal of sur- 
plusage, from the last finish of the gem- 
engraver blowing away the last particle 
of invisible dust, back to the earliest 
divination of the finished work to be, 
lying somewhere, according to Michel- [540 
angelo's fancy, in the rough-hewn block 
of stone. 

And what applies to figure or flower 
must be understood of all other acci- 
dental or removable ornaments of writ- 
ing whatever; and not of specific orna- 
ment only, but of all that latent color 
and imagery which language as such car- 
ries in it. A lover of words for their 
own sake, to whom nothing about [550 
them is unimportant, a minute and con- 
stant observer of their physiognomy, he 
will be on the alert not only for obviously 
mixed metaphors of course, but for the 
metaphor that is mixed in all our speech, 
though a rapid use may involve no cog- 
nition of it. Currently recognizing the 
incident, the color, the physical elements 
or particles in words like absorb, con- 
sider, extract, to take the first that [560 
occur, he will avail himsdf of them, as 
further adding to the resources of expres- 
sion. The elementary particles of lan- 
guage will be realized as color and light 
and shade through his scholarly living 
in the full sense of them. Still opposing 
the constant degradation of language by 
those who use it carelessly, he will not 
treat colored glass as if it were clear; 
and while half the world is using [570 
figure unconsciously, will be fully aware 
not only of all that latent figurative tex- 
ture in speech, but of the vague, lazy, 
half-formed personification — a rhetoric, 
depressing, and worse than nothing, be- 
cause it has no really rhetorical motive 
— which plays so large a part there, and, 
as in the case of more ostentatious orna- 



ment, scrupulously exact of it, from 
syllable to syllable, its precise value. [580 

So far I have been speaking of certain 
conditions of the literary art arising 
out of the medium or material in or upon 
which it works, the essential qualities 
of language and its aptitudes for con- 
tingent ornamentation, matters which 
define scholarship as science and good 
taste respectively. They are both sub- 
servient to a more intimate quality of 
good style: more intimate, as coming [590 
nearer to the artist himself. The otiose, 
the facile, surplusage: why are these 
abhorrent to the true literary artist, ex- 
cept because, in literary as in all other 
art, structure is all-important, felt, or 
painfully missed, everywhere? — that archi- 
tectural conception of work, which fore- 
sees the end in the beginning and never 
loses sight of it, and in every part is con- 
scious of all the rest, till the last [600 
sentence does but, with undiminished 
vigor, unfold and justify the first — a con- 
dition of literary art, which, in contra- 
distinction to another quality of the 
artist himself, to be spoken of later, 
I shall call the necessity of mind in 
style. 

An acute philosophical writer, the late 
Dean Mansel (a writer whose works il- 
lustrate the literary beauty there may [610 
be in closeness, and with obvious repres- 
sion or economy of a fine rhetorical gift) 
wrote a book, of fascinating precision in 
a very obscure subject, to show that all 
the technical laws of logic are but means 
of securing, in each and all of its appre- 
hensions, the unity, the strict identity 
with itself, of the apprehending mind. 
All the laws of good writing aim at a 
similar unity or identity of the mind [620 
in all the processes by which the word is 
associated to its import. The term is 
right, and has its essential beauty, when 
it becomes, in a manner, what it sig- 
nifies, as with the names of simple sen- 
sations. To give the phrase, the sen- 
tence, the structural member, the en- 
tire composition, song, or essay, a similar 
unity with its subject and with itself: 
— style is in the right way when it [630 
tends towards that. All depends upon 
the original unity, the vital wholeness 



766 



THE VICTORIAX AGE 



and identity, of the initiatory apprehen- 
sion or view. So much is true of all 
art, which therefore requires always its 
logic, its comprehensive reason — insight, 
foresight, retrospect, in simultaneous ac- 
tion — true, most of all, of the literary' 
art, as being of all the arts most closely 
cognate to the abstract intelligence. [640 
Such logical coherency may be e\idenced 
not merely in the lines of composition as 
a whole, but in the choice of a single 
word, while it by no means interferes 
with, but may even prescribe, much va- 
riety, in the building of the sentence for 
instance, or in the manner, argumenta- 
tive, descriptive, discursive, of this or 
that part or member of the entire design. 
The blithe, crisp sentence, decisive [650 
as a child's expression of its needs, may 
alternate T\-ith the long-contending, ^'ic- 
toriously intricate sentence; the sen- 
tence, bom "nith the integrity of a single 
word, relie\-ing the sort of sentence in 
which, if you look closely, you can see 
much contrivance, much adjustment, to 
bring a highly qualified matter into 
compass at one \iew. For the Hterar^^ 
architecture, if it is to be rich and [660 
expressive, involves not only foresight of 
the end in the beginning, but also develop- 
ment or growth of design, in the process 
of execution, with many irregularities, 
surprises, and after-thoughts; the con- 
tingent as well as the necessary- being 
subsumed imder the unity of the whole. 
As truly, to the lack of such architec- 
tural design, of a single, almost ^■isual, 
image, \dgorously informing an en- [670 
tire, perhaps ver}' intricate, composi- 
tion, which shall be austere, ornate, ar- 
gimientative, fanciful, yet true from first 
to last to that \-ision within, may be 
attributed those weaknesses of conscious 
or unconscious repetition of word, phrase, 
motive, or member of the whole matter, 
indicating, as Flaubert was aware, an 
original structure in thought not organ- 
ically complete. With such foresight, [680 
the actual conclusion will most often get 
itself written out of hand, before, in the 
more ob\'ious sense, the work is finished. 
With some strong and leading sense of 
the world, the tight hold of which se- 
cures true composition and not mere loose 



accretion, the literary artist, I suppose, 
goes on considerably, setting joint to 
joint, sustained by yet restraining the 
productive ardor, retracing the negli- [690 
gences of his first sketch, repeating his 
steps only that he may give the reader 
a sense of secure and restful progress, 
readjusting mere assonances even, that 
they may soothe the reader, or at least 
not interrupt him on his way; and then, 
somewhere before the end comes, is 
burdened, inspired, with his conclusion, 
and betimes delivered of it, lea\dng off, 
not in weariness and because he finds [700 
himself at an end, but in all the freshness 
of volition. His work now structurally 
complete, with all the accumulating ef- 
fect of secondar}^ shades of meaning, he 
finishes the whole up to the just propor- 
tion of that ante-penultimate conclusion, 
and all becomes expressive. The house 
he has built is rather a body he has in- 
formed. And so it happens, to its greater 
credit, that the better interest even of [710 
a narrative to be recounted, a stor}' to 
be told, will often be in its second reading. 
And though there are instances of great 
■^Titers who have been no artists, an un- 
conscious tact sometimes directing work 
in which we may detect, ver}^ pleasurably, 
many of the effects of conscious art, yet 
one of the greatest pleasures of really good 
prose hterature is in the critical tracing 
out of that conscious artistic structure, [720 
and the per^-ading sense of it as we read. 
Yet of poetic literature too; for, in truth, 
the kind of constructive intelligence here 
supposed is one of the forms of the imagi- 
nation. 

That is the special fimction of mind, 
in style. oMind and soul: — hard to as- 
certain philosophically, the distinction is 
real enough practically, for they often 
interfere, are sometimes in conflict, [730 
with each other. Blake, in the last cen- 
tury, is an instance of preponderating soul, 
embarrassed, at a loss, in an era of pre- 
ponderating mind. As a quality of style, 
at all events, soul is a fact, in certain 
T\Titers — the way they have of absorb- 
ing language, of attracting it into the 
peculiar spirit they are of, with a sub- 
tlety which makes the actual result seem 
like some inexpUcable inspiration. [740 



PATER 



767 



By mind, the literary artist reaches us, 
through static and objective indications 
of design in his work, legible to all. By 
soul, he reaches us, somewhat capri- 
ciously perhaps, one and not another, 
through vagrant sympathy and a kind of 
immediate contact. Mind we cannot 
choose but approve where we recognize 
it; soul may repel us, not because we 
misunderstand it. The way in which [750 
theological interests sometimes avail them- 
selves of language is perhaps the best 
illustration of the force I mean to indi- 
cate generally in literature, by the word 
soul. Ardent religious persuasion may 
exist, may make its way, without find- 
ing any equivalent heat in language: or, 
again, it may enkindle words to various 
degrees, and when it really takes hold 
of them doubles its force. Religious [760 
history presents many remarkable in- 
stances in which, through no mere phrase- 
worship, an unconscious hterary tact 
has, for the sensitive, laid open a privi- 
leged pathway from one to another. 
"The altar-fire," people say, "has touched 
those lips!" The Vulgate, the EngHsh 
Bible, the English Prayer-Book, the 
writings of Swedenborg, the Tracts for 
the Times: — there, we have instances [770 
of widely different and largely diffused 
phases of religious, feeling in operation as 
soul in style. But something of the same 
kind acts with similar power in certain 
writers of quite other than theological 
Hterature, on behalf of some wholly per- 
sonal and peculiar sense of theirs. Most 
easily illustrated by theological literature, 
this quality lends to profane writers a 
kind of reUgious influence. At their [780 
best, these writers become, as we say 
sometimes, "prophets;" such character 
depending on the effect not merely of their 
matter, but of their matter as allied to, 
in "electric affinity" with, peculiar form, 
and working in all cases by an immediate 
sympathetic contact, on which account it 
is that it may be called soul, as opposed to 
mind, in style. And this too is a faculty 
of choosing and rejecting what is [790 
congruous or otherwise, with a drift to- 
wards unity — unity of atmosphere here, 
as there of design — soul securing color 
(or perfume, might we say?) as mind 



secures form, the latter being essentially 
finite, the former vague or infinite, as 
the influence of a living person is prac- 
tically infinite. There are some to whom 
nothing has any real interest, or real 
meaning, except as operative in a [800 
given person; and it is they who best 
appreciate the quality of soul in literary 
art. They seem to know a person, in a 
book, and make way by intuition: yet, 
although they thus enjoy the complete- 
ness of a personal information, it is still a 
characteristic of soul, in this sense of the 
word, that it does but suggest what can 
never be uttered, not as being different 
from, or more obscure than, what ac- [810 
tually gets said, but as containing that 
plenary substance of which there is only 
one phase or facet in what is there ex- 
pressed. 

If all high things have their martyrs, 
Gustave Flaubert might perhaps rank as 
the martyr of literary style. In his 
printed correspondence a curious series 
of letters, written in his twenty-fifth 
year, records what seems to have been [820 
his one other passion — a series of letters 
which, with its fine casuistries, its firmly 
repressed anguish, its tone of harmonious 
gray, and the sense of disillusion in which 
the whole matter ends, might have been, 
a few slight changes supposed, one of 
his own fictions. Writing to Madame X. 
certainly he does display, by "taking 
thought" mainly, by constant and deli- 
cate pondering, as in his love for [830 
Hterature, a heart really moved, but still 
more, and as the pledge of that emo- 
tion, a loyalty to his work. Madame X., 
too, is a literary artist, and the best gifts 
he can send her are precepts of perfec- 
tion in art, covmsels for the effectual 
pursuit of that better love. In his love- 
letters it is the pains and pleasures of 
art he insists on, its solaces: he communi- 
cates secrets, reproves, encourages, [840 
with a view to that. Whether the lady 
was dissatisfied with such divided or in- 
direct service, the reader is not enabled 
to see; but sees that, on Flaubert's part 
at least, a living person could be no x'wslX 
of what was, from first to last, his leading 
passion, a somewhat solitary and exclu- 
sive one. 



76^ 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



"1 must scold you," he writes, "for one 
thing, which shocks, scandaHzes me, [850 
the small concern, namely, you show for 
art just now. As regards glory be it so: 
there, I approve. But for art! — the one 
thing in life that is good and real — can 
you compare with it an earthly love? 
— prefer the adoration of a relative beauty 
to the cuUus of the true beauty? Well! 
I tell you the truth. That is the one 
thing good in me: the one thing I have, to 
me estimable. For yourself, you blend [860 
with the beautiful a heap of alien things, 
the useful, the agreeable, what not? — 

"The only way not to be unhappy is 
to shut yourself up in art, and count 
everything else as nothing. Pride takes 
the place of all beside when it is estab- 
lished on a large basis. Work! God 
wills it. That, it seems to me, is 
clear. — 

" I am reading over again the JEneid, [870 
certain verses of which I repeat to my- 
self to satiety. There are phrases there 
which stay in one's head, by which I 
find myself beset, as with those musical 
airs which are forever returning, and 
cause you pain, you love them so much. 
I observe. that I no longer laugh much, 
and am no longer depressed. I am ripe. 
You talk of my serenity, and envy 
me. It may well surprise you. Sick, [880 
irritated, the prey a thousand times a 
day of cruel pain, I continue my labor 
like a true working-man, who, with sleeves 
turned up, in the sweat of his brow, beats 
away at his anvil, never troubling himself 
whether it rains or blows, for hail or 
thunder. I was not like that formerly. 
The change has taken place naturally, 
though my will has counted for some- 
thing in the matter. — - [890 

"Those who write in good style are 
sometimes accused of a neglect of ideas, 
and of the moral end, as if the end of the 
physician were something else than heal- 
ing, of the painter than painting — as if 
the end of art were not, before all else, 
the beautiful." 

What, then, did Flaubert understand 
by beauty, in the art he pursued with 
so much fervor, with so much self- [900 
command? Let us hear a sympathetic 
commentator: — 



"Possessed of an absolute belief that 
there exists but one way of expressing 
one thing, one word to call it by, one ad- 
jective to qualify, one verb to animate 
it, he gave himself to superhuman labor 
for the discovery, in every phrase, of that 
word, that verb, that epithet. In this 
way, he believed in some mysterious [910 
harmony of expression, and when a true 
word seemed to him to lack euphony still 
went on seeking another, with invincible 
patience, certain that he had not yet got 
hold of the unique word. ... A thou- 
sand preoccupations would beset him at 
the same moment, always with this des- 
perate certitude fixed in his spirit: Among 
all the expressions in the world, all forms 
and turns of expression, there is but [920 
one — one form, one mode — to express what 
I want to say." 

The one word for the one thing, the 
one thought, amid the multitude of words, 
terms, that might just do: the problem 
of style was there! — the unique word, 
phrase, sentence, paragraph, essay, or 
song, absolutely proper to the single men- 
tal presentation or vision within. In that 
perfect justice, over and above the [930 
many contingent and removable beauties 
with which beautiful style may charm us, 
but which it can exist without, inde- 
pendent of them yet dexterously availing 
itself of them, omnipresent in good work, 
in function at every point, from single 
epithets to the rhythm of a whole book, 
lay the specific, indispensable, very intel- 
lectual, beauty of literature, the pos- 
sibility of which constitutes it a fine [940 
art. 

One seems to detect the influence of a 
philosophic idea there, the idea of a 
natural economy, of some preexistent 
adaptation, between a relative, somewhere 
in the world of thought, and its correla- 
tive, somewhere in the world of language 
— both alike, rather, somewhere in the 
mind of the artist, desiderative, expect- 
ant, inventive — meeting each other [950 
with the readiness of "soul and body re- 
united," in Blake's rapturous design; 
and, in fact, Flaubert was fond of 
giving his theory philosophical expres- 
sion. — 

"There are no beautiful thoughts," he 



PATER 



769 



would say, "without beautiful forms, and 
conversely. As it is impossible to extract 
from a physical body the qualities which 
really constitute it — color, extension, [960 
and the like — without reducing it to a 
hollow abstraction, in a word, without 
destroying it; just so it is impossible to 
detach the form from the idea, for the 
idea only exists by virtue of the form." 

All the recognized flowers, the remov- 
able ornaments of literature (including 
harmony and ease in reading aloud, very 
carefully considered by him) counted 
certainly; for these too are part of the [970 
actual value of what one says. But still, 
after all, with Flaubert, the search, the 
unwearied research, was not for the 
smooth, or winsome, or forcible word, as 
such, as with false Ciceronians, but quite 
simply and honestly for the word's ad- 
justment to its meaning. The first con- 
dition of this must be, of course, to know 
yourself, to have ascertained your own 
sense exactly. Then, if we suppose [980 
an artist, he says to the reader, — I want 
you to see precisely what I see. Into the 
mind sensitive to "form," a flood of 
random sounds, colors, incidents, is ever 
penetrating from the world without, to 
become, by sympathetic selection, a part 
of its very structure, and, in turn, the 
visible vesture and expression of that 
other world it sees so steadily within, 
nay, already with a partial con- [990 
formity thereto, to be refined, enlarged, 
corrected, at a hundred points; and it is 
just there, just at those doubtful points 
that the function of style, as tact or 
taste, intervenes. The unique term will 
come more quickly to one than another, 
at one time than another, according also 
to the kind of matter in question. Quick- 
ness and slowness, ease and closeness 
alike, have nothing to do with the [1000 
artistic character of the true word found 
at last. As there is a charm of ease, so 
there is also a special charm in the signs 
of discovery, of effort and contention 
towards a due end, as so often with 
Flaubert himself — in the style which has 
been pliant, as only obstinate, durable 
metal can be, to the inherent perplexities 
and recusancy of a certain difficult 
thought. .[loio 



If Flaubert had not told us, perhaps we 
should never have guessed how tardy and 
painful his own procedure really was, and 
after reading his confession may think 
that his almost endless hesitation had 
much to do with diseased nerves. Often, 
perhaps, the felicity supposed will be the 
product of a happier, a more exuberant 
nature than Flaubert's. Aggravated, cer- 
tainly, by a morbid physical condi- [1020 
tion, that anxiety in "seeking the phrase," 
which gathered all the other small ennuis 
of a really quiet existence into a kind of 
battle, was connected with his lifelong 
contention against facile poetry, facile 
art — art, facile and flimsy; and what 
constitutes the true artist is not the slow- 
ness or quickness of the process, but the 
absolute success of the result. As with 
those laborers in the parable, the [1030 
prize is independent of the mere length 
of the actual day's work. "You talk," he 
writes, odd, trying lover, to Madame X. — 

"You talk of the exclusiveness of my 
literary' tastes. That might have en- 
abled you to divine what kind of a per- 
son I am in the matter of love. I grow 
so hard to please as a literary artist, that 
I am driven to despair. I shall end by 
not writing another line." [1040 

"Happy," he cries, in a moment of dis- 
couragement at that patient labor, which 
for him, certainly, was the condition of a 
great success — 

"Happy those who have no doubts of 
themselves! who lengthen out, as the pen 
runs on, all that flows forth from their 
brains. As for me, I hesitate, I disap- 
point myself, turn round upon myself in 
despite: my taste is augmented in [1050 
proportion as my natural vigor decreases, 
and I afflict my soul over some dubious 
word out of all proportion to the pleasure 
I get from a whole page of good writing. 
One would have to live two centuries to 
attain a true idea of any matter what- 
ever. What Buffon said is a big blas- 
phemy: genius is not long-continued pa- 
tience. Still, there is some truth in the 
statement, and more than people [1060 
think, especially as regards our own day. 
Art! art! art! bitter deception! phantom 
that glows with light, only to lead one on 
to destruction." 



770 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Again — 

"I am growing so peevish about my 
writing. I am like a man whose ear is 
true but who plays falsely on the violin: 
his fingers refuse to reproduce precisely 
those sounds of which he has the [1070 
inward sense. Then the tears come roll- 
ing down from the poor scraper's eyes and 
the bow falls from his hand." 

Coming slowly or quickly, when it 
comes, as it came with so much labor of 
mind, but also with so much luster, to 
Gustave Flaubert, this discovery of the 
word will be, like all artistic success and 
felicity, incapable of strict analysis: effect 
of an intuitive condition of mind, [1080 
it must be recognized by like intuition 
on the part of the reader, and a sort of 
immediate sense. In every one of those 
masterly sentences of Flaubert there 
was, below all mere contrivance, shaping 
and afterthought, by some happy in- 
stantaneous concourse of the various 
faculties of the mind with each other, 
the exact apprehension of what was needed 
to carry the meaning. And that [1090 
it fits with absolute justice will be a judg- 
ment of immediate sense in the apprecia- 
tive reader. We all feel this in what may 
be called inspired translation. Well! all 
language involves translation from in- 
ward to outward. In literature, as in aU 
forms of art, there are the absolute and 
the merely relative or accessory beauties; 
and precisely in that exact proportion 
of the term to its purpose is the [noo 
absolute beauty of style, prose or verse. 
All the good qualities, the beauties, of 
verse also, are such, only as precise ex- 
pression. 

In the highest as in the lowliest litera- 
ture, then, the one indispensable beauty 
is, after all, truth: — truth to bare fact 
in the latter, as to some personal sense 
of fact, diverted somewhat from men's 
ordinary sense of it, in the former; [mo 
truth there as accuracy, truth here as 
expression, that finest and most intimate 
form of truth, the vraie verite. And what 
an eclectic principle this really is! em- 
ploying for its one sole purpose — ^that 
absolute accordance of expression to 
idea — all other literary beauties and ex- 
cellences whatever: how many kinds of 



style it covers, explains, justifies, and at 
the same time safeguards! Scott's [1120 
faciUty, Flaubert's deeply pondered evoca- 
tion of "the phrase," are equally good 
art. Say what you have to say, what 
you have a will to say, in the simplest, 
the most direct and exact manner pos- 
sible, with no surplusage: — there, is the 
justification of the sentence so fortu- 
nately born, " entire, smooth, and round," 
that it needs no punctuation, and also 
(that is the point!) of the most [1130 
elaborate period, if it be right in its 
elaboration. Here is the office of orna- 
ment: here also the purpose of restraint 
in ornament. As the exponent of truth, 
that austerity (the beauty, the function, 
of which in literature Flaubert understood 
so well) becomes not the correctness or 
purism of the mere scholar, but a security 
against the otiose, a jealous exclusion of 
what does not really tell towards the [1140 
pursuit of relief, of life and vigor in the 
portraiture of one's sense. License again, 
the making free with rule, if it be indeed, 
as people fancy, a habit of genius, flinging 
aside or transforming all that opposes 
the liberty of beautiful production, will 
be but faith to one's own meaning. The 
seeming baldness of Le Rouge et Le Noir 
is nothing in itself; the wild ornament 
of Les Miser ables is nothing in it- [1150 
self; and the restraint of Flaubert, amid 
a real natural opulence, only redoubled 
beauty — the phrase so large and so pre- 
cise at the same time, hard as bronze, 
in service to the more perfect adaptation 
of words to their matter. Afterthoughts, 
retouchings, finish, will be of profit only 
so far as they too really serve to bring 
out the original, initiative, generative, 
sense in them. [1160 

In this way, according to the well- 
known saying, "The style is the man," 
complex or simple, in his individuality, 
his plenary sense of what he really has 
to say, his sense of the world; all cautions 
regarding style arising out of so many 
natural scruples as to the medium through 
which alone he can expose that inward 
sense of things, the purity of this medium, 
its laws or tricks of refraction: [1170 
nothing is to be left there which might 
give conveyance to any matter save that. 



PATER 



771 



Style in all its varieties, reserved or opu- 
lent, terse, abundant, musical, stimulant, 
academic, so long as each is really char- 
acteristic or expressive, finds thus its 
justification, the sumptuous good taste of 
Cicero being as truly the man himself, 
and not another, justified, yet insured 
inalienably to him, thereby, as would [1180 
have been his portrait by Raffaelle, 
in full consular splendor, on his ivory 
chair. 

A relegation, you may say perhaps — 
a relegation of style to the subjectivity, 
the mere caprice, of the individual, which 
must soon transform it into mannerism. 
Not so! since there is, under the condi- 
tions supposed, for those elements of 
the man, for every lineament of the [1190 
vision within, the one word, the one ac- 
ceptable word, recognizable by the sensi- 
tive, by others "who have intelligence" 
in the matter, as absolutely as ever any- 
thing can be in the evanescent and deli- 
cate region of human language. The style, 
the manner, would be the m_an, not in 
his unreasoned and really uncharac- 
teristic caprices, involuntary or affected, 
but in absolutely sincere apprehen- [1200 
sion of what is most real to him. But 
let us hear our French guide again. — 

"Styles," says Flaubert's commenta- 
tor, "Styles, as so many peculiar molds, 
each of which bears the mark of a par- 
ticular writer, who is to pour into it the 
whole content of his ideas, were no part 
of his theory. What he believed in was 
Style: that is to say, a certain absolute 
and unique manner of expressing a [1210 
thing, in all its intensity and color. For 
him the form was the work itself. As 
in living creatures, the blood, nourishing 
the body, determines its very contour 
and external aspect, just so, to his mind, 
the matter, the basis, in a work of art, 
imposed necessarily the unique, the just 
expression, the measure, the rhythm — 
the form in all its characteristics." 

If the style be the man, in all the [1220 
color and intensity of a veritable apprehen- 
sion, it will be in a real sense "impersonal." 

I said, thinking of books like Victor 
Hugo's Les Miserables, that prose litera- 
ture was the characteristic art of the 
nineteenth century, as others, thinking of 



its triumphs since the youth of Bach, 
have assigned that place to music. Music 
and prose literature are, in one sense, 
the opposite terms of art; the art of [1230 
literature presenting to the imagination, 
through the intelligence, a range of in- 
terests, as free and various as those which 
music presents to it through sense. And, 
certainly the tendency of what has been 
here said is to bring literature too under 
those conditions, by conformity to which 
music takes rank as the typically perfect 
art. If music be the ideal of all art what- 
ever, precisely because in music it is [1240 
impossible to distinguish the form from the 
substance or matter, the subject from the 
expression, then literature, by finding its 
specific excellence in the absolutecorrespon- 
dence of the term to its import, will be but 
fulfilling the condition of all artistic qual- 
ity in things everywhere, of all good art. 

Good art, but not necessarily great 
art; the distinction between great art 
and good art depending immediately, [1250 
as regards literature at all events, not 
on its form, but on the matter. Thack- 
eray's Esmond, surely, is greater art than 
Vanity Fair, by the greater dignity of its 
interests. It is on the quality of the mat- 
ter it informs or controls, its compass, its 
variety, its alliance to great ends, or the 
depth of the note of revolt, or the large- 
ness of hope in it, that the greatness 
of literary art depends, as The Divine [1260 
Comedy, Paradise Lost, Les Miserables, 
The English Bible, are great art. Given 
the conditions I have tried to explain as 
constituting good art; — then, if it be 
devoted further to the increase of men's 
happiness, to the redemption of the op- 
pressed, or the enlargement of our sym- 
pathies with each other, or to such pre- 
sentment of new or old truth about 
ourselves and our relation to the [1270 
world as may ennoble and fortify us in 
our sojourn here, or immediately, as with 
Dante, to the glory of God, it will be also 
great art; if, over and above those quali- 
ties I summed up as mind and soul — 
that color and mystic perfume, and that 
reasonable structure, it has something of 
the soul of humanity in it, and finds its 
logical, its architectural place, in the 
great structure of human life. [1280 



IT- 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



WORDSWORTH 

Some English critics at the beginning 
of the present century had a great deal 
to say concerning a distinction of much 
importance, as they thought, in the true 
estimate of poetry, between the Fancy, 
and another more powerful faculty — the 
Imagination. This metaphysical distinc- 
tion, borrowed originally from the writ- 
ings of German philosophers, and perhaps 
not always clearly apprehended by [lo 
those who talked of it, involved a far 
deeper and more vital distinction, with 
which indeed all true criticism more or 
less directly has to do, the distinction, 
namely, between higher and lower de- 
grees of intensity in the poet's perception 
of his subject, and in his concentration of 
himself upon his work. Of those who 
dwelt upon the metaphysical distinc- 
tion between the Fancy and the Im- [20 
agination, it was Wordsworth who made 
the most of it, assuming it as the basis 
for the final classification of his poetical 
writings; and it is in these writings that 
the deeper and more vital distinction, 
which, as I have said, underlies the meta- 
physical distinction, is most needed, and 
may best be illustrated. 

For nowhere is there so perplexed a 
mixture as in Wordsworth's own poe- [30 
try, of work touched with intense and 
individual power, with work of almost 
no character at all. He has much con- 
ventional sentiment, and some of that 
insincere poetic diction, against which 
his most serious critical efforts were 
directed: the reaction in his political 
ideas, consequent on the excesses of 1795, 
makes him, at times, a mere declaimer 
on moral and social topics; and he [40 
seems, sometimes, to force an unwilling 
pen, and write by rule. By making the 
most of these blemishes it is possible to 
obscure the true aesthetic value of his 
work, just as his life also, a life of much 
quiet delicacy and independence, might 
easily be placed in a false focus, and made 
to appear a somewhat tame theme in 
illustration of the more obvious parochial 
virtues. And those who wish to under- [50 
stand his influence, and experience his 
peculiar savor, must bear with patience 



the presence of an alien element in Words- 
worth's work, which never coalesced with 
what is really delightful in it, nor under- 
went his special power. Who that values 
his writings most has not felt the intru- 
sion there, from time to time, of some- 
thing tedious and prosaic? Of all poets 
equally great, he would gain most by [60 
a skilfully made anthology. Such a selec- 
tion would show, in truth, not so much 
what he was, or to himself or others 
seemed to be, as what, by the more ener- 
getic and fertile quality in his writings, 
he was ever tending to become. And the 
mixture in his work, as it actually stands, 
is so perplexed, that one fears to miss the 
least promising composition even, lest 
some precious morsel should be lying [70 
hidden within — the few perfect lines, 
the phrase, the single word perhaps, to 
which he often works up mechanically 
through a poem, almost the whole of 
which may be tame enough. He who 
thought that in all creative work the 
larger part was given passively, to the 
recipient mind, who waited so dutifully 
upon the gift, to whom so large a meas- 
ure was sometimes given, had his [80 
times also of desertion and relapse; and 
he has permitted the impress of these 
too to remain in his work. And this 
duality there — the fitfulness with which 
the higher qualities manifest themselves 
in it, gives the effect in his poetry of a 
power not altogether his own, or under his 
control, which comes and goes when it 
will, lifting or lowering a matter, poor in 
itself; so that that old fancy which [90 
made the poet's art an enthusiasm, a 
form of divine possession, seems almost 
literally true of him. 

This constant suggestion of an absolute 
duality between higher and lower moods, 
and the work done in them, stimulating 
one always to look below the surface, 
makes the reading of Wordsworth an 
excellent sort of training towards the 
things of art and poetry. It begets in [100 
those, who, coming across him in youth, 
can bear him at all, a habit of reading 
between the lines, a faith in the effect of 
concentration and collectedness of mind 
in the right appreciation of poetry, an 
expectation of things, in this order, com- 



PATER 



773 



ing to one by means of a right discipline 
of the temper as well as of the intellect. 
He meets us with the promise that he has 
much, and something very peculiar, [no 
to give us, if we will follow a certain 
difificult way, and seems to have the secret 
of a special and privileged state of mind. 
And those who have undergone his in- 
fluence, and followed this difficult way, 
are like people who have passed through 
some initiation, a disciplina arcani, by 
submitting to which they become able 
constantly to distinguish in art, speech, 
feeling, manners, that which is organic, [120 
animated, expressive, from that which is 
only conventional, derivative, inexpressive. 
But although the necessity of selecting 
these precious morsels for oneself is an 
opportunity for the exercise of Words- 
worth's pecuhar influence, and induces a 
kind of just criticism and true estimate 
of it, yet the purely literary product 
would have been more excellent, had the 
writer himself purged away that alien [130 
element. How perfect would have been 
the little treasury, shut between the 
covers of how thin a book! Let us sup- 
pose the desired separation made, the 
electric thread untwined, the golden 
pieces, great and small, lying apart to- 
gether. What are the peculiarities of this 
residue? What special sense does Words- 
worth exercise, and what instincts does 
he satisfy? What are the subjects [140 
and the motives which in him excite the 
imaginative faculty? What are the quali- 
ties in things and persons which he values, 
the impression and sense of which he can 
convey to others, in an extraordinary way? 

An intimate consciousness of the ex- 
pression of natural things, which weighs, 
listens, penetrates, where the earlier 
mind passed roughly by, is a large ele- 
ment in the complexion of modern [150 
poetry. It has been remarked as a fact 
in mental history again and again. It 
reveals itself in many forms; but is 
strongest and most attractive in what is 
strongest and most attractive in mod- 
ern literature. It is exemplified, almost 
equally, by writers as unlike each other 
as Senancour and Theophile Gautier: as 
a singular chapter in the history of the 



human mind, its growth might be [160 
traced from Rousseau to Chateaubriand, 
from Chateaubriand to Victor Hugo: it 
has doubtless some latent connection with 
those pantheistic theories which locate 
an intelligent soul in material things, 
and have largely exercised men's minds 
in some modern systems of philosophy: 
it is traceable even in the graver writ- 
ings of historians: it makes as much dif- 
ference between ancient and modern [170 
landscape art, as there is between the 
rough masks of an early mosaic and 
a portrait by Reynolds or Gainsborough. 
Of this new sense, the writings of Words- 
worth are the central and elementary 
expression: he is more simply and en- 
tirely occupied with it than any other 
poet, though there are fine expressions 
of precisely the same thing in so different 
a poet as Shelley. There was in his [180 
own character a certain contentment, a 
sort of inborn religious placidity, seldom 
found united with a sensibflity so mobile 
as his, which was favorable to the quiet, 
habitual observation of inanimate, or 
imperfectly animate, existence. His life 
of eighty years is divided by no very pro- 
foundly felt incidents: its changes are 
almost wholly inward, and it falls into 
broad, untroubled, perhaps somewhat [190 
monotonous spaces. What it most re- 
sembles is the life of one of those early 
Italian or Flemish painters, who, just 
because their minds were full of heavenly 
visions, passed, some of them, the better 
part of sixty years in quiet, systematic 
industry. This placid life matured a 
quite unusual sensibility, really innate 
in him, to the sights and sounds of the 
natural world — the flower and its [200 
shadow on the stone, the cuckoo and its 
echo. The poem of Resolution and In- 
dependence is a storehouse of such records: 
for its fulness of imagery it may be com- 
pared to Keats's Saint Agnes' Eve. To 
read one of his longer pastoral poems 
for the first time, is Hke a day spent in 
a new country: the memory is crowded 
for a while with its precise and vivid 
incidents — [210 

"The pliant harebell swinging in the breeze 
On some gray rock"; — 



774 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



"The single sheep and the one blasted tree 
And the bleak music from that old stone 
wall";— 

"And in the meadows and the lower 

grounds 
Was all the sweetness of a common 

dawn"; — 

"And that green corn all day is rustling 
in thine ears." 

Clear and delicate at once, as he is 
in the outlining of visible imagery, he is 
more clear and delicate still, and finely [220 
scrupulous, in the noting of sounds; so 
that he conceives a noble sound as even 
moulding the human countenance to 
nobler types, and as something actually 
"profaned" by color, by visible form, 
or image. He has a power likewise 
of realizing, and conveying to the con- 
sciousness of the reader, abstract and ele- 
mentary impressions — silence, darkness, 
absolute motionlessness: or, again, the [230 
whole complex sentiment of a particu- 
lar place, the abstract expression of 
desolation in the long white road, of 
peacefulness in a particular folding of 
the hills. In the airy building of the 
brain, a special day or hour even, comes 
to have for him a sort of personal iden- 
tity, a spirit or angel given to it, by 
which, for its exceptional insight, or the 
happy light upon it, it has a presence in [240 
one's history, and acts there, as a separate 
power or accomplishment; and he has 
celebrated in many of his poems the 
"efficacious spirit," which, as he says, 
resides in these "particular spots" of 
time. 

It is to such a world, and to a world 
of congruous meditation thereon, that we 
see him retiring in his but lately published 
poem of The Recluse — taking leave, [250 
without much count of costs, of the world 
of business, of action and ambition, as 
also of all that for the majority of man- 
kind counts as sensuous enjoyment. 

And so it came about that this sense 
of a life in natural objects, which in most 
poetry is but a rhetorical artifice, is 
with Wordsworth the assertion of what 
for him is almost literal fact. To him 
every natural object seemed to possess [260 



more or less of a moral or spiritual life, 
to be capable of a companionship with 
man, full of expression, of inexplicable 
affinities and delicacies of intercourse. 
An emanation, a particular spirit, be- 
longed, not to the moving leaves or water 
only, but to the distant peak of the 
hills arising suddenly, by some change 
of perspective, above the nearer horizon, 
to the passing space of light across the [270 
plain, to the lichened Druidic stone even, 
for a certain weird fellowship in it with 
the moods of men. It was like a "sur- 
vival," in the peculiar intellectual tem- 
perament of a man of letters at the end 
of the eighteenth century, of that primi- 
tive condition, which some philosophers 
have traced in the general history of 
human culture, wherein all outward 
objects alike, including even the [280 
works of men's hands, were believed to 
be endowed with animation, and the 
world was "full of souls" — that mood 
in which the old Greek gods were first 
begotten, and which had many strange 
aftergrowths. 

In the early ages, this belief, delight- 
ful as its effects on poetry often are, was 
but the result of a crude intelligence. But, 
in Wordsworth, such power of seeing [290 
life, such perception of a soul, in inanimate 
things, came of an exceptional suscepti- 
bility to the impressions of eye and ear, 
and was, in its essence, a kind of sen- 
suousness. At least, it is only in a tem- 
perament exceptionally susceptible on 
the sensuous side, that this sense of the 
expressiveness of outward things comes 
to be so large a part of life. That 
he awakened "a sort of thought in [300 
sense," is Shelley's just estimate of this 
element in Wordsworth's poetry. 

And it was through nature, thus en- 
nobled by a semblance of passion and 
thought, that he approached the spec- 
tacle of human life. Human life, in- 
deed, is for him, at first, only an addi- 
tional, accidental grace on an expressive 
landscape. When he thought of man, 
it was of man as in the presence and [310 
under the influence of these effective 
natural objects, and linked to them by 
many associations. The close connection 
of man with natural objects, the habitual 



PATER 



775 



association of his thoughts and feelings 
with a particular spot of earth, has some- 
times seemed to degrade those who are 
subject to its influence, as if it did but 
reinforce that physical connection of our 
nature with the actual lime and clay of [320 
the soil, which is always drawing us nearer 
to our end. But for Wordsworth, these 
influences tended to the dignity of human 
nature, because they tended to tranquil- 
lize it. By raising nature to the level 
of human thought he gives it power and 
expression: he subdues man to the level 
of nature, and gives him thereby a 
certain breadth and coolness and solem- 
nity. The leech-gatherer on the moor, [330 
the woman "stepping westward," are 
for him natural objects, almost in the 
same sense as the aged thorn, or the 
lichened rock on the heath. In this 
sense the leader of the "Lake School," 
in spite of an earnest preoccupation with 
man, his thoughts, his destiny, is the 
poet of nature. And of nature, after 
all, in its modesty. The English lake 
country has, of course, its grandeurs. [340 
But the peculiar function of Words- 
worth's genius, as carrying in it a power 
to open out the soul of apparently little 
or familiar things, would have found its 
true test had he become the poet of 
Surrey, say! and the prophet of its life. 
The glories of Italy and Switzerland, 
though he did write a little about 
them, had too potent a material life of 
their own to serve greatly his poetic [350 
purpose. 

Religious sentiment, consecrating the 
affections and natural regrets of the 
human heart, above all, that pitiful awe 
and care for the perishing human clay, 
of which relic-worship is but the corrup- 
tion, has always had much to do with 
localities, with the thoughts which attach 
themselves to actual scenes and places. 
Now what is true of it everywhere, is [360 
truest of it in those secluded valleys where 
one generation after another maintains 
the same abiding-place; and it was on 
this side, that Wordsworth apprehended 
religion most strongly. Consisting, as 
it did so much, in the recognition of local 
sanctities, in the habit of connecting 
the stones and trees of a particular 



spot of earth with the great events of life, 
till the low walls, the green mounds, [370 
the half-obliterated epitaphs seemed full of 
voices, and a sort of natural oracles, the 
very religion of these people of the dales 
appeared but as another Unk between 
them and the earth, and was literally 
a religion of nature. It tranquillized 
them by bringing them under the placid 
rule of traditional and narrowly local- 
ized observances. "Grave livers," they 
seemed to him, under this aspect, with [380 
stately speech, and something of that nat- 
ural dignity of manners, which underlies 
the highest courtesy. 

And, seeing man thus as a part of na- 
ture, elevated and solemnized in propor- 
tion as his daily life and occupations 
brought him into companionship with per- 
manent natural objects, his very religion 
forming new links for him with the narrow 
limits of the valley, the low vaults [390 
of his church, the rough stones of his home, 
made intense for him now with profound 
sentiment, Wordsworth was able to ap- 
preciate passion in the lowly. He chooses 
to depict people from humble life, be- 
cause, being nearer to nature than others, 
they are on the whole more impas- 
sioned, certainly more direct in their 
expression of passion, than other men: it 
is for this direct expression of passion, [400 
that he values their humble words. In 
much that he said in exaltation of rural 
life, he was but pleading indirectly for 
that sincerity, that perfect fidelity to 
one's own inward presentations, to the 
precise features of the picture within, 
without which any profound poetry is 
impossible. It was not for their tame- 
ness, but for this passionate sincerity, 
that he chose incidents and situations [410 
from common life, "related in a selection 
of language really used by men." He 
constantly endeavors to bring his lan- 
guage near to the real language of men: 
to the real language of men, however, 
not on the dead level of their ordinary 
intercourse, but in select moments of 
vivid sensation, when this language is 
winnowed and ennobled by excitement. 
There are poets who have chosen rural [420 
life as their subject, for the sake of its 
passionless repose, and times when Words- 



776 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



worth himself extols the mere calm and 
dispassionate survey of things as the 
highest aim of poetical culture. But it 
was not for such passionless calm that 
he preferred the scenes of pastoral life; 
and the meditative poet, sheltering him- 
self, as it might seem, from the agitations 
of the outward world, is in reality only [430 
clearing the scene for the great exhibi- 
tions of emotion, and what he values 
most is the almost elementary expression 
of elementary feelings. 

And so he has much for those who 
value highly the concentrated present- 
ment of passion, who appraise men and 
women by their susceptibility to it, 
and art and poetry as they afford the 
spectacle of it. Breaking from time [440 
to time into the pensive spectacle of their 
daily toil, their occupations near to 
nature, come those great elementary 
feelings, lifting and solemnizing their 
language and giving it a natural music. 
The great, distinguishing passion came 
to Michael by the sheepfold, to Ruth 
by the wayside, adding these hum- 
ble children of the furrow to the true 
aristocracy of passionate souls. In this [450 
respect, Wordsworth's work resembles 
most that of George Sand, in those of her 
novels which depict country life. With a 
penetrative pathos, which puts him in 
the same rank with the masters of the 
sentiment of pity in literature, with 
Meinhold and Victor Hugo, he collects 
all the traces of vivid excitement which 
were to be found in that pastoral world — 
the girl who rung her father's knell ; the [460 
unborn infant feeling about its mother's 
heart; the instinctive touches of children; 
the sorrows of the wild creatures, even — 
their home-sickness, their strange yearn- 
ings; the tales of passionate regret that 
hang by a ruined farm-building, a heap 
of stones, a deserted sheepfold; that 
gay, false, adventurous, outer world, 
which breaks in from time to time to be- 
wilder and deflower these quiet homes; [470 
not "passionate sorrow" only, for the 
overthrow of the soul's beauty, but the 
loss of, or carelessness for personal beauty 
even, in those whom men have wronged — 
their pathetic wanness; the sailor "who, 
in his heart, was half a shepherd on 



the stormy seas;" the wild woman teach- 
ing her child to pray for her betrayer; 
incidents like the making of the shepherd's 
staff, or that of the young boy laying [480 
the first stone of the sheepfold; — all the 
pathetic episodes of their humble exist- 
ence, their longing, their wonder at for- 
tune, their poor pathetic pleasures, like 
the pleasures of children, won so hardly 
in the struggle for bare existence; their 
yearning towards each other, in their 
darkened houses, or at their early toil. 
A sort of biblical depth and solemnity 
hangs over this strange, new, pas- [490 
sionate, pastoral world, of which he first 
raised the image, and the reflection of 
which some of our best modern fiction 
has caught from him. 

He pondered much over the philosophy 
of his poetry, and reading deeply in 
the history of his own mind, seems at 
times to have passed the borders of a 
world of strange speculations, inconsist- 
ent enough, had he cared to note such [500 
inconsistencies, with those traditional 
beliefs, which were otherwise the object 
of his devout acceptance. Thinking of 
the high value he set upon customariness, 
upon all that is habitual, local, rooted 
in the ground, in matters of religious 
sentiment, you might sometimes regard 
him as one tethered down to a world, re- 
fined and peaceful indeed, but with no 
broad outlook, a world protected, but [510 
somewhat narrowed, by the influence of 
received ideas. But he is at times also 
something very different from this, and 
something much bolder. A chance ex- 
pression is overheard and placed in a 
new connection, the sudden memory of a 
thing long past occurs to him, a distant 
object is relieved for a while by a ran- 
dom gleam of light — accidents turning up 
for a moment what lies below the [520 
surface of our immediate experience — 
and he passes from the humble graves 
and lowly arches of "the little rock-like 
pile" of a Westmoreland church, on 
bold trains of speculative thought, and 
comes, from point to point, into strange 
contact with thoughts which have visited, 
from time to time, far more venturesome, 
perhaps errant, spirits. 



PATER 



777 



He had pondered deeply, for in- [530 
stance, on those strange reminiscences and 
forebodings, which seem to make our hves 
stretch before and behind us, beyond 
where we can see or touch anything, or 
trace the Hnes of connection. Following 
the soul, backwards and forwards, on 
these endless ways, his sense of man's 
dim, potential powers became a pledge to 
him, indeed, of a future life, but carried him 
back also to that mysterious notion [540 
of an earlier state of existence — the fancy 
of the Platonists — the old heresy of 
Origen. It was in this mood that he 
conceived those oft-reiterated regrets for 
a half-ideal childhood, when the relics 
of Paradise still clung about the soul 
— a childhood, as it seemed, full of the 
fruits of old age, lost for all, in a degree, 
in the passing away of the youth of the 
world, lost for each one, over again, in [550 
the passing away of actual youth. It is 
this ideal childhood which he celebrates 
in his famous Ode on the Recollections of 
Childhood, and some other poems which 
may be grouped around it, such as the 
lines on Tintern Abbey, and something 
like what he describes was actually 
truer of himself than he seems to have 
understood; for his own most delightful 
poems were really the instinctive pro- [560 
ductions of earlier life, and most surely for 
him, "the first diviner influence of this 
world" passed away, more and more 
completely, in his contact with ex- 
perience. 

Sometimes as he dwelt upon those 
moments of profound, imaginative power, 
in which the outward object appears to 
take color and expression, a new nature 
almobi, from the prompting of the [570 
observant mind, the actual world would, 
as it were, dissolve and detach itself, 
flake by flake, and he himself seemed to 
be the creator, and when he would, the 
destroyer, of the world in which he lived — 
that old isolating thought of many a 
brain-sick mystic of ancient and modern 
times. 

At other times, again, in those periods 
of intense susceptibility, in which he [580 
appeared to himself as but the passive 
recipient of external influences, he was 
attracted by the thought of a spirit of 



life in outward things, a single, all-per- 
vading mind in them, of which man, 
and even the poet's imaginative energy, 
are but moments — that old dream of 
the anima niufidi, the mother of all things 
and their grave, in which some had desired 
to lose themselves, and others had [590 
become indifferent to the distinctions of 
good and evil. It would come, some- 
times, like the sign of the macrocosm to 
Faust in his cell: the network of man and 
nature was seen to be pervaded by a 
common, universal life: a new, bold 
thought lifted him above the furrow, 
above the green turf of the Westmoreland 
churchyard, to a world altogether differ- 
ent in its vagueness and vastness, and [600 
the narrow glen was full of the brooding 
power of one universal spirit. 

And so he has something, also, for 
those who feel the fascination of bold 
speculative ideas, who are really capable 
of rising upon them to conditions of 
poetical thought. He uses them, indeed, 
always with a very fine apprehension of 
the limits within which alone philosophical 
imaginings have any place in true poe- [610 
try; and using them only for poetical pur- 
poses, is not too careful even to make 
them consistent with each other. To 
him, theories which for other men bring 
a world of technical diction, brought per- 
fect form and expression, as in those 
two lofty books of the Prelude, which 
describe the decay and the restoration of 
Imagination and Taste. Skirting the 
borders of this world of bewildering [620 
heights and depths, he got but the first 
exciting influence of it, that joyful en- 
thusiasm which great imaginative theories 
prompt, when the mind first comes to 
have an understanding of them; and 
it is not under the influence of these 
thoughts that his poetry becomes tedious 
or loses its blitheness. He keeps them, 
too, always within certain ethical bounds, 
so that no word of his could offend the [630 
simplest of those simple souls which are 
always the largest portion of mankind. 
But it is, nevertheless, the contact of 
these thoughts, the speculative bold- 
ness in them, which constitutes, at 
least for some minds, the secret attrac- 



778 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



tion of much of his best poetry — -the sud- 
den passage from lowly thoughts and 
places to the majestic forms of philosoph- 
ical imagination, the play of these [640 
forms over a world so different, enlarging so 
strangely the bounds of its humble church- 
yards, and breaking such a wild light on 
the graves of christened children. 

And these moods always brought with 
them faultless expression. In regard to 
expression, as with feeling and thought, 
the duality of the higher and lower moods 
was absolute. It belonged to the higher, 
the imaginative mood, and was the [650 
pledge of its reality, to bring the appropri- 
ate language with it. In him, when the 
really poetical motive worked at all, it 
united, with absolute justice, the word 
and the idea; each, in the imaginative 
flame, becoming inseparably one with 
the other, by that fusion of matter and 
form, which is the characteristic of the 
highest poetical expression. His words 
are themselves thought and feeling; [660 
not eloquent, or musical words merely, 
but that sort of creative language which 
carries the reality of what it depicts, 
directly, to the consciousness. 

The music of mere metre performs 
but a limited, yet a very peculiar and 
subtly ascertained function, in Words- 
worth's poetry. With him, metre is but an 
additional grace, accessory to that deeper 
music of words and sounds, that [670 
moving power, which they exercise in the 
nobler prose no less than in formal poetry. 
It is a sedative to that excitement, an 
excitement sometimes almost painful, 
under which the language, alike of poetry 
and prose, attains a rhythmical power, 
independent of metrical combination, 
and dependent rather on some subtle 
adjustment of the elementary sounds of 
words themselves to the image or feel- [680 
ing they convey. Yet some of his pieces, 
pieces prompted by a sort of half-playful 
mysticism, like the Daffodils and The 
Two April Mornings, are distinguished 
by a certain quaint gaiety of metre, 
and rival by their perfect execution, in 
this respect, similar pieces among our 
own Elizabethan, or contemporary French 
poetry. And those who take up these 
poems after an interval of months, or [690 



years perhaps, may be surprised at find- 
ing how well old favorites wear, how their 
strange, inventive turns of diction or 
thought still send through them the old 
feeling of surprise. Those who lived 
about Wordsworth were all great lovers 
of the older English literature, and often 
times there came out in him a noticeable 
likeness to our earlier poets. He quotes 
unconsciously, but with new power of [700 
meaning, a clause from one of Shake- 
speare's sonnets; and, as with some other 
men's most famous work, the Ode on the 
Recollections of Childhood had its antici- 
pator. He drew something too from 
the unconscious mysticism of the old 
English language itself, drawing out the 
inward significance of its racy idiom, and 
the not wholly unconscious poetry of the 
language used by the simplest people [710 
under strong excitement — language, there- 
fore, at its origin. 

The office of the poet is not that of the 
moralist, and the first aim of Words- 
worth's poetry is to give the reader a 
peculiar kind of pleasure. But through 
his poetry, and through this pleasure in 
it, he does actually convey to the reader 
an extraordinary wisdom in the things 
of practice. One lesson, if men must [720 
have lessons, he conveys more clearly 
than all, the supreme importance of con- 
templation in the conduct of life. 

Contemplation — impassioned contem- 
plation — that is with Wordsworth the 
end-in-itself, the perfect end. We see the 
majority of mankind going most often 
to definite ends, lower or higher ends, 
as their own instincts may determine; but 
the end may never be attained, and [730 
the means not be quite the right means, 
great ends and little ones alike being, 
for the most part, distant, and the ways 
to them, in this dim world, somewhat 
vague. Meantime, to higher or lower 
ends, they move too often with something 
of a sad countenance, with hurried and ig- 
noble gait, becoming, unconsciously, some- 
thing like thorns, in their anxiety to bear 
grapes; it being possible for people, [740 
in the pursuit of even great ends, to be- 
come themselves thin and impoverished 
in spirit and temper, thus diminishing 



PATER 



779 



the sum of perfection in the world, at its 
very sources. We understand this when 
it is a question of mean, or of intensely 
selfish ends — of Grandet, or Javert. We 
think it bad morality to say that the end 
justifies the means, and we know how false 
to all higher conceptions of the reli- [750 
gious life is the type of one who 'is ready 
to do evil that good may come. We 
contrast with such dark, mistaken eager- 
ness, a type like that of Saint Catherine 
of Siena, who made the means to her 
ends so attractive, that she has won for 
herself an undying place in the House 
Beautiful, not by her rectitude of soul 
only, but by its "fairness" — by those 
quite different qualities which com- [760 
mend themselves to the poet and the artist. 

Yet, for most of us, the conception of 
means and ends covers the whole of life, 
and is the exclusive type or figure under 
which we represent our lives to ourselves. 
Such a figure, reducing all things to 
machinery, though it has on its side the 
authority of that old Greek moralist who 
has fixed for succeeding generations the 
outline of the theory of right living, [770 
is too like a mere picture or description 
of men's lives as we actually find them, 
to be the basis of the higher ethics. It 
covers the meanness of men's daily lives, 
and much of the dexterity and the vigor 
with which they pursue what may seem 
to them the good of themselves or of 
others; but not the intangible perfection 
of those whose ideal is rather in being than 
in doing — not those manners which [780 
are, in the deepest as in the simplest 
sense, morals, and without which one 
cannot so much as offer a cup of water to 
a poor man without offence — not the part 
of "antique Rachel," sitting in the com- 
pany of Beatrice; and even the moralist 
might well endeavor rather to withdraw 
men from the too exclusive consideration 
of means and ends, in life. 

Against this predominance of ma- [790 
chinery in our existence, Wordsworth's 
poetry, like all great art and poetry, is a 
continual protest. Justify rather the end 
by the means, it seems to say: whatever 
may become of the fruit, make sure of the 
flowers and the leaves. It was justly said, 
therefore, by one who had meditated very 



profoundly on the true relation of means 
to ends in life, and on the distinction be- 
tween what is desirable in itself and [800 
what is desirable only as machinery, that 
when the battle which he and his friends 
were waging had been won, the world 
would need more than ever those qualities 
which Wordsworth was keeping alive and 
nourishing. 

That the end of life is not action but 
contemplation — being as distinct from do- 
ing — a certain disposition of the mind: is, 
in some shape or other, the principle [810 
of all the higher morality. In poetry, in 
art, if you enter into their true spirit at 
all, you touch this principle, in a meas- 
ure: these, by their very sterility, are a 
type of beholding for the mere joy of 
beholding. To treat life in the spirit of 
art, is to make life a thing in which means 
and ends are identified: to encourage 
such treatment, the true moral significance 
of art and poetry. Wordsworth, [820 
and other poets who have been like him 
in ancient or more recent times, are the 
masters, the experts, in this art of impas- 
sioned contemplation. Their work is, not 
to teach lessons, or enforce rules, or even 
to stimulate us to noble ends; but to 
withdraw the thoughts for a little while 
from the mere machinery of life, to 
fix them, with appropriate emotions, on 
the spectacle of those great facts in [830 
man's existence which no machinery 
affects, "on the great and universal pas- 
sions of men, the most general and in- 
teresting of their occupations, and the 
entire world of nature," — on "the opera- 
tions of the elements and the appearances 
of the visible universe, on storm and sun- 
shine, on the revolutions of the seasons, 
on cold and heat, on loss of friends and 
kindred, on injuries and resentments, [840 
on gratitude and hope, on fear and sor- 
row." To witness this spectacle with 
appropriate emotions is the aim of all 
culture; and of these emotions poetry 
I like Wordsworth's is a great nourisher 
j and stimulant. He sees nature full of 
j sentiment and excitement; he sees men 
I and women as parts of nature, passion- 
j ate, excited, in strange grouping and con- 
nection with the grandeur and beauty [850 
1 of the natural world: — images, in his own 



78o 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



words, "of man suffering, amid awful 
forms and powers." 

Such is the figure of the more powerful 
and original poet, hidden away, in part, 
under those weaker elements in Words- 
worth's poetry, which for some minds de- 
termine their entire character; a poet 
somewhat bolder and more passionate 
than might at first sight be supposed, [860 
but not too bold for true poetical taste; 
an unimpassioned writer, you might 
sometimes fancy, yet thinking the chief 
aim, in life and art alike, to be a certain 
deep emotion; seeking most often the 
great elementary passions in lowly places; 
having at least this condition of all im- 
passioned work, that he aims always 
at an absolute sincerity of feeling and 
diction, so that he is the true fore- [870 
runner of the deepest and most passionate 
poetry of our own day; yet going back 
also, with something of a protest against 
the conventional fervor of much of the 
poetry popular in his own time, to those 
older English poets, whose unconscious 
likeness often comes out in him. 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
(1850-1894) 

^S TRIPLEX 

The changes wrought by death are in 
themselves so sharp and final, and so 
terrible and melancholy in their conse- 
quences, that the thing stands alone in 
man's experience, and has no parallel 
upon earth. It outdoes all other acci- 
dents because it is the last of them. Some- 
times it leaps suddenly upon its victims, 
like a thug; sometimes it lays a regular, 
siege and creeps upon their citadel [10 
during a score of years. And when the 
business is done, there is sore havoc made 
in other people's lives, and a pin knocked 
out by which many subsidiary friendships 
hung together. There are empty chairs, 
solitary walks, and single beds at night. 
Again, in taking away our friends, death 
does not take them away utterly, but 
leaves behind a mocking, tragical, and 
soon intolerable residue, which must [20 



be hurriedly concealed. Hence a whole 
chapter of sights and customs striking to 
the mind, from the pyramids of Egypt 
to the gibbets and dule trees of mediaeval 
Europe. The poorest persons have a bit 
of pageant going towards the tomb; 
memorial stones are set up over the least 
memorable; and, in order to preserve some 
show of respect for what remains of our 
old loves and friendships, we must [30 
accompany it with much grimly ludicrous 
ceremonial, and the hired undertaker 
parades before the door. All this, and 
much more of the same sort, accom- 
panied by the eloquence of poets, has 
gone a great way to put humanity in 
error; nay, in many philosophies the error 
has been embodied and laid down with 
every circumstance of logic; although in 
real life the bustle and swiftness, in [40 
leaving people little time to think, have 
not left them time enough to go danger- 
ously wrong in practice. 

As a matter of fact, although few things 
are spoken of with more fearful whisper- 
ings than this prospect of death, few have 
less influence on conduct under healthy 
circumstances. We have all heard of 
cities in South America built upon the 
side of fiery mountains, and how, even [50 
in this tremendous neighborhood, the 
inhabitants are not a jot more impressed 
by the solemnity of mortal conditions 
than if they were delving gardens in the 
greenest corner of England. There are 
serenades and suppers and much gallantry 
among the myrtles overhead; and mean- 
while the foundation shudders underfoot, 
the bowels of the mountain growl, and 
at any moment living ruin may leap [60 
sky-high into the moonlight, and tumble 
man and his merry-making in the dust. 
In the eyes of very young people, and very 
dull old ones, there is something inde- 
scribably reckless and desperate in such 
a picture. It seems not credible that 
respectable married people, with um- 
brellas, should find appetite for a bit of 
supper within quite a long distance of a 
fiery mountain; ordinary life begins [70 
to smell of high-handed debauch when 
it is carried on so close to a catastrophe; 
and even cheese and salad, it seems, could 
hardly be relished in such circumstances 



STEVENSON 



781 



without something like a defiance of the 
Creator. It should be a place for nobody 
but hermits dwelling in prayer and 
maceration, or mere born-devils drowning 
care in a perpetual carouse. 

And yet, when one comes to think [80 
upon it calmly, the situation of these 
South American citizens forms only a 
very pale figure for the state of ordinary 
mankind. This world itself, travelling 
blindly and swiftly in over-crowded space, 
among a million other worlds travelling 
blindly and swiftly in contrary directions, 
may very well come by a knock that 
would set it into explosion like a penny 
squib. And what, pathologically [90 
looked at, is the human body with all 
its organs, but a mere bagful of petards? 
The least of these is as dangerous to the 
whole economy as the ship's powder- 
magazine to the ship; and with every 
breath we breathe, and every meal we 
eat, we are putting one or more of them 
in peril. If we clung as devotedly as some 
philosophers pretend we do to the abstract 
idea of life, or were half as frightened [100 
as they make out we are, for the subver- 
sive accident that ends it all, the trumpets 
might sound by the hour and no one 
would follow them into battle — the blue- 
peter might fly at the truck, but who 
would climb into a sea-going ship? Think 
(if these philosophers were right) with 
what a preparation of spirit we should 
affront the daily peril of the dinner-table; 
a deadlier spot than any battle-field [no 
in history, where the far greater propor- 
tion of our ancestors have miserably left 
their bones! What woman would ever 
be lured into marriage, so much more 
dangerous than the wildest sea? And 
what would it be to grow old? For, 
after a certain distance, every step we 
take in life we find the ice growing thinner 
below our feet, and all around us and 
behind us we see our contemporaries [120 
going through. By the time a man gets 
well into the seventies, his continued 
existence is a mere miracle; and when he 
lays his old bones in bed for the night, 
there is an overwhelming probability that 
he will never see the day. Do the old 
men mind it, as a matter of fact? Why, 
no. They were never merrier; they have 



their grog at night, and tell the raciest 
stories; they hear of the death of [130 
people about their own age, or even 
younger, not as if it was a grisly warning, 
but with a simple childlike pleasure at 
having outlived some one else; and when 
a draught might puff them out like a 
guttering candle, or a bit of a stumble 
shatter them like so much glass, their old 
hearts keep sound and unaff righted, and 
they go on, bubbling with laughter, 
through years of man's age compared [140 
to which the valley at Balaclava was as 
safe and peaceful as a village cricket-green 
on Sunday. It may fairly be questioned 
(if we look to the peril only) whether 
it was a much more daring feat for Curtius 
to plunge into the gulf, than for any old 
gentleman of ninety to doff his clothes 
and clamber into bed. 

Indeed, it is a memorable subject for 
consideration, with what unconcern [150 
and gaiety mankind pricks on along the 
Valley of the Shadow of Death. The 
whole way is one wilderness of snares, 
and the end of it, for those who fear the 
last pinch, is irrevocable ruin. And 
yet we go spinning through it all, like a 
party for the Derby. Perhaps the reader 
remembers one of the humorous devices 
of the deified Caligula: how he encour- 
aged a vast concourse of holiday- [160 
makers on to his bridge over Baise bay; 
and when they were in the height of their 
enjoyment, turned loose the Praetorian 
guards among the company, and had 
them tossed into the sea. This is no bad 
miniature of the dealings of nature with 
the transitory race of man. Only, what 
a chequered picnic we have of it, even 
while it lasts! and into what great waters, 
not to be crossed by any swimmer, [170 
God's pale Praetorian throws us over in 
the end! 

We live the time that a match flickers; 
we pop the cork of a ginger-beer bottle, 
and the earthquake swallows us on the 
instant. Is it not odd, is it not incon- 
gruous, is it not, in the highest sense of 
human speech, incredible, that we should 
think so highly of the ginger-beer, and 
regard so little the devouring earth- [180 
quake? The love of Life and the fear of 
Death are two famous phrases that grow 



782 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



harder to understand the more we think 
about them. It is a well-known fact 
that an immense proportion of boat 
accidents would never happen if people 
held the sheet in their hands instead of 
making it fast; and yet, unless it be some 
martinet of a professional mariner or 
some landsman with shattered nerves, [190 
every one of God's creatures makes it 
fast. A strange instance of man's un- 
concern and brazen boldness in the face 
of death! 

We confound ourselves with metaphys- 
ical phrases, which we import into daily 
talk with noble inappropriateness. We 
have no idea of what death is, apart from 
its circumstances and some of its conse- 
quences to others; and although we [200 
have some experience of living there is 
not a man on earth who has flown so 
high into abstraction as to have any 
practical guess at the meaning of the 
word life. All hterature, from Job and 
Omar Khayyam to Thomas Carlyle or 
Walt Whitman, is but an attempt to look 
upon the human state with such large- 
ness of view as shall enable us to rise from 
the consideration of living to the Def- [210 
inition of Life. And our sages give us 
about the best satisfaction in their power 
when they say that it is a vapor, or a 
show, or made out of the same stuff with 
dreams. Philosophy, in its more rigid 
sense, has been at the same work for 
ages; and after a myriad bald heads 
have wagged over the problem, and piles 
of words have been heaped one upon 
another into dry and cloudy volumes [220 
without end, philosophy has the honor 
of laying before us, with modest pride, 
her contribution towards the subject: 
that life is a Permanent Possibility of 
Sensation. Truly a fine result! A man 
may very well love beef, or hunting, or a 
woman; but surely, surely, not a Perma- 
nent Possibility of Sensation! He may be 
afraid of a precipice, or a dentist, or a 
large enemy with a club, or even an [230 
undertaker's man; but not certainly of 
abstract death. We may trick with the 
word life in its dozen senses until we are 
weary of tricking; we may argue in terms 
of all the philosophies on earth, but one 
fact remains true throughout — that we 



do not love life, in the sense that we are 
greatly preoccupied about its conserva- 
tion; that we do not, properly speaking, 
love life at all, but living. Into the [240 
views of the least careful there will enter 
some degree of providence; no man's eyes 
are fixed entirely on the passing hour; 
but although we have some anticipation 
of good health, good weather, wine, ac- 
tive employment, love, and self -approval, 
the sum of these anticipations does not 
amount to anything like a general view 
of life's possibilities and issues; nor are 
those who cherish them most vividly [250 
at all the most scrupulous of their per- 
sonal safety. To be deeply interested in 
the accidents of our existence, to enjoy 
keenly the mixed texture of human ex- 
perience, rather leads a man to disregard 
precautions, and risk his neck against a 
straw. For surely the love of living is 
stronger in an Alpine climber roping over 
a peril, or a hunter riding merrily at 
a stiff fence, than in a creature who [260 
lives upon a diet and walks a measured 
distance in the interest of his constitu- 
tion. 

There is a great deal of very vile 
nonsense talked upon both sides of the 
matter: tearing divines reducing life to 
the dimensions of a mere funeral proces- 
sion, so short as to be hardly decent, 
and melancholy unbelievers yearning for 
the tomb as if it were a world too [270 
far away. Both sides must feel a little 
ashamed of their performances now and 
again when they draw in their chairs to 
dinner. Indeed, a good meal and a bottle 
of wine is an answer to most standard 
works upon the question. When a man's 
heart warms to his viands, he forgets a 
great deal of sophistry, and soars into a 
rosy zone of contemplation. Death may 
be knocking at the door, like the [280 
Commander's statue; we have something 
else in hand, thank God, and let him 
knock. Passing bells are ringing all the 
world over. All the world over, and 
every hour, some one is parting company 
with all his aches and ecstasies. For us 
also the trap is laid. But we are so fond 
of life that we have no leisure to entertain 
the terror of death. It is a honeymoon 
with us all through, and none of the [290 



STEVENSON 



783 



longest. Small blame to us if we give 
our whole hearts to this glowing bride of 
ours, to the appetites, to honor, to the 
hungry curiosity of the mind, to the 
pleasure of the eyes in nature, and the 
pride of our own nimble bodies. 

We all of us appreciate the sensations; 
but as for caring about the Permanence 
of the Possibility, a man's head is gener- 
ally very bald, and his senses very dull, [300 
before he comes to that. Whether we 
regard life as a lane leading to a dead 
wall— a mere bag's end, as the French 
say — or whether we think of it as a vesti- 
bule or gjonnasium, where we wait our 
turn and prepare our faculties for some 
more noble destiny; whether we thunder 
in a pulpit, or pule in little atheistic 
poetry-books, about its vanity and brev- 
ity; whether we look justly for years [310 
of health and vigor, or are about to mount 
into a Bath-chair, as a step towards the 
hearse; in each and all of these views and 
situations there is but one conclusion 
possible: that a man should stop his ears 
against paralysing terror, and run the 
race that is set before him with a single 
mind. No one surely could have recoiled 
with more heartache and terror from 
the thought of death than our re- [320 
spected lexicographer; and yet we know 
how little it affected his conduct, how 
wisely and boldly he walked, and in 
what a fresh and lively vein he spoke of 
life. Already an old man, he ventured 
on his Highland tour; and his heart, 
bound with triple brass, did not recoil 
before twenty-seven individual cups of 
tea. As courage and intelligence are the 
two qualities best worth a good [330 
man's cultivation, so it is the first part of 
intelligence to recognize our precarious 
estate in life, and the first part of courage 
to be not at all abashed before the fact. 
A frank and somewhat headlong carriage, 
not looking too anxiously before, not 
dallying in maudlin regret over the past, 
stamps the man who is well armored for 
this world. 

And not only well armored for him- [340 
self, but a good friend and a good citizen 
to boot. We do not go to cowards for 
tender dealing; there is nothing so cruel as 
panic; the man who has least fear for 



! his own carcass, has most time to con- 
I sider others. That eminent chemist who 
j took his walks abroad in tin shoes, and 
j subsisted wholly upon tepid milk, had 
I all his work cut out for him in considerate 
dealings with his own digestion. So [350 
j soon as prudence has begun to grow up in 
j the brain, like a dismal fungus, it finds 
I its first expression in a paralysis of gener- 
I ous acts. The victim begins to shrink 
I spiritually; he develops a fancy for par- 
lors with a regulated temperature, and 
takes his morality on the principle of 
tin shoes and tepid milk. The care of 
j one important body or soul becomes so 
j engrossing, that all the noises of the [360 
j outer world begin to come thin and faint 
I into the parlor with the regulated tem- 
j perature; and the tin shoes go equably 
forward over blood and rain. To be other- 
I wise is to ossify; and the scruple-monger 
I ends by standing stockstill. Now the 
man who has his heart on his sleeve, and 
a good whirling weathercock of a brain, 
who reckons his life as a thing to be 
dashingly used and cheerfully haz- [370 
arded, makes a very different acquaint- 
ance of the world, keeps all his pulses 
going true and fast, and gathers impetus 
as he runs, until, if he be running towards 
anything better than wildfire, he may 
shoot up and become a constellation in the 
end. Lord, look after his health. Lord, 
have a care of his soul, says he; and he 
has at the key of the position, and smashes 
through incongruity and peril towards [380 
his aim. Death is on all sides of him with 
pointed batteries, as he is on all sides of 
all of us; unfortunate surprises gird him 
round; mim-mouthed friends and rela- 
tions hold up their hands in quite a little 
elegiacal synod about his path: and what 
cares he for all this? Being a true lover 
of living, a fellow with something pushing 
and spontaneous in his inside, he must, 
like any other soldier, in any other [390 
stirring, deadly warfare, push on at his 
best pace until he touch the goal. "A 
peerage or Westminster Abbey!" cried 
Nelson in his bright, boyish, heroic 
manner. These are great incentives; not 
for any of these, but for the plain satis- 
faction of living, of being about their 
business in some sort or other, do the 



784 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



brave, serviceable men of every nation 
tread down the nettle danger, and [400 
pass flyingly over all the stumbling-blocks 
of prudence. Think of the heroism of 
Johnson, think of that superb indifference 
to mortal limitation that set him upon 
his dictionary, and carried him through 
triumphantly until the end! Who, if 
he were wisely considerate of things at 
large, would ever embark upon any work 
much more considerable than a half- 
penny post-card? Who would project [410 
a serial novel, after Thackeray and 
Dickens had each fallen in mid-course? 
Who would find heart enough to begin 
to live, if he dallied with the considera- 
tion of death? 

And, after all, what sorry and pitiful 
quibbling all this is! To forego all the 
issues of living in a parlor with a regu- 
lated temperature — as if that were not 
to die a hundred times over, and for [420 
ten years at a stretch! As if it were not 
to die in one's own lifetime, and without 
even the sad immunities of death! As 
if it were not to die, and yet be the patient 
spectators of our own pitiable change! 
The Permanent Possibility is preserved, 
but the sensations carefully held at arm's 
length, as if one kept a photographic 
plate in a dark chamber. It is better to 
lose health like a spendthrift than to [430 
waste it like a miser. It is better to live 
and be done with it, than to die daily in 
the sick-room. By all means begin your 
folio; even if the doctor does not give 
you a year, even if he hesitates about a 
month, make one brave push and see 
what can be accomphshed in a week. It 
is not only in finished undertakings that 
we ought to honor useful labor. A spirit 
goes out of the man who means [440 
execution, which outlives the most un- 
timely ending. All who have meant good 
work with their whole hearts, have done 
good work, although they may die before 
they have the time to sign it. Every 
heart that has beat strong and cheerfully 
has left a hopeful impulse behind it in 
the world, and bettered the tradition of 
mankind. And even if death catch 
people, like an open pitfall, and in [450 
mid-career, laying out vast projects, and 
planning monstrous foundations, flushed 



with hope, and their mouths full of 
boastful language, they should be at once 
tripped up and silenced: is there not 
something brave and spirited in such 
a termination? and does not life go down 
with a better grace, foaming in full body 
over a precipice, than miserably strag- 
gling to an end in sandy deltas? [460 
When the Greeks made their fine saying 
that those whom the gods love die young, 
I cannot help believing they had this sort 
of death also in their eye. For surely, 
at whatever age it overtake the man, 
this is to die young. Death has not 
been suffered to take so much as an illu- 
sion from his heart. In the hot-fit of life, 
a-tiptoe on the highest point of being, 
he passes at a bound on to the other [470 
side. The noise of the mallet and chisel 
is scarcely quenched, the trumpets are 
hardly done blowing, when, trailing with 
him clouds of glory, this happy-starred, 
full-blooded spirit shoots into the spiritual 
land. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 
(1837-1909) 

THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 

Here, where the world is quiet, 

Here, where all trouble seems 
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 

In doubtful dreams of dreams; 
I watch the green field growing 5 
For reaping folk and sowing, 
For harvest-time and mowing, 
A sleepy world of streams. 

I am tired of tears and laughter, 

And men that laugh and weep; 10 
Of what may come hereafter 
For men that sow to reap: 
I am weary of days and hours, 
Blown buds of barren flowers. 
Desires and dreams and powers 15 
And everything but sleep. 

Here life has death for neighbor. 

And far from eye or ear 
Wan waves and wet winds labor, 

Weak ships and spirits steer; 20 



SWINBURNE 



785 



They drive adrift, and whither 
They wot not who make thither; 
But no such winds blow hither, 
And no such things grow here. 

No growth of moor or coppice, 

No heather-flower or vine, 
But bloomless buds of poppies. 

Green grapes of Prosperine, 
Pale beds of blowing rushes, 
Where no leaf blooms or blushes 
Save this whereout she crushes 
For dead men deadly wine. 



25 



30 



Pale, without name or number, 

In fruitless fields of corn. 
They bow themselves and slumber 35 

All night till light is born; 
And like a soul belated. 
In hell and heaven unmated. 
By cloud and mist abated 

Comes out of darkness mom. 40 

Though one were strong as seven, 
He too with death shall dwell. 

Nor wake with wings in heaven, 
Nor weep for pains in hell; 

Though one were fair as roses, 45 

His beauty clouds and closes; 

And well though love reposes. 
In the end it is not well. 

Pale, beyond porch and portal, 

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands 
Who gathers all things mortal 51 

With cold immortal hands; 
Her languid lips are sweeter 
Than love's who fears to greet her. 
To men that mix and meet her 55 

From many times and lands. 

She waits for each and other, 
She waits for all men born; 
Forgets the earth her mother, 

The life of fruits and corn; 60 

And spring and seed and swallow 
Take wing for her and follow 
Where summer song rings hollow 
And flowers are put to scorn. 

There go the loves that wither, 65 
The old loves with wearier wings; 

And all dead years draw thither, 
And all disastrous things; 



Dead dreams of days forsaken. 
Blind buds that snows have shaken, 70 
Wild leaves that winds have taken. 
Red strays of ruined springs. 

We are not sure of sorrow; 

And joy was never sure; 
To-day will die to-morrow; 75 

Time stoops to no man's lure; 
And love, grown faint and fretful, 
With lips but half regretful 
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 

Weeps that no loves endure. 80 

From too much love of living. 
From hope and fear set free, 

We thank with brief thanksgiving 
Whatever gods may be 

That no life lives for ever; 85 

That dead men rise up never; 

That even the weariest river 
Winds somewhere safe to sea. 

Then star nor sun shall waken. 

Nor any change of light: 90 

Nor sound of waters shaken. 
Nor any sound or sight: 

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal. 

Nor days nor things diurnal; 

Only the sleep eternal 95 

In an eternal night. 



CHORUSES From ATALANTA IN 
CALYDON 

The Hounds of Spring 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's 
traces. 
The mother of months in meadow or 
plain 
Fills the shadows and windy places 

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; 
And the brown bright nightingale amo- 
rous 5 
Is half assuaged for Itylus, 
For the Thracian ships and the foreign 
faces, 
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying 
of quivers, 
Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 10 



786 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



With a noise of winds and many rivers, 

With clamor of waters, and with might; 
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
shivers, i s 

Round the feet of the day and the feet 
of the night. 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing 
to her, 
Fold our hands round her knees, and 
cling? 
that man's heart were as fire and could 
spring to her. 
Fire, or the strength of the streams that 
spring ! 20 

For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 
For the risen stars and the fallen cling 
to her, 
And the southwest- wind, and the west- 
wind sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over, 25 

And all the season of snows and sins; 
The days dividing lover and lover, 

The light that loses, the night that wins; 
And time remembered is grief forgotten, 29 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 
And in green underwood and cover 
Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 

Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot. 
The faint fresh flame of the young year 
flushes 35 

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; 
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire. 
And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut- 
root. 40 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night. 

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
Follows with dancing and fills with de- 
light 
The Maenad and the Bassarid; 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide 45 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide. 
And screen from seeing and leave in 
sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 



The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; 50 

The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 

The wild vine slips with the weight of its 
leaves. 

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 

To the limbs that glitter, the feet that 

scare 55 

The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 

Before the Beginning of Years 

Before the beginning of years 

There came to the making of man 
Time, with a gift of tears; 

Grief, with a glass that ran; 
Pleasure, with pain for leaven; 5 

Summer, with flowers that fell; 
Remembrance fallen from heaven, 

And madness risen from hell; 
Strength without hands to smite; 

Love that endures for a breath; 10 

Night, the shadow of light. 

And life, the shadow of death. 
And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears. 
And a measure of sliding sand 15 

From under the feet of the years; 
And froth and drift of the sea; 

And dust of the laboring earth; 
And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth; 20 
And wrought with weeping and laughter. 

And fashioned with loathing and love, 
With life before and after 

And death beneath and above. 
For a day and a night and a morrow, 25 

That his strength might endure for a 
span 
With travail and heavy sorrow, 

The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the 
south 

They gathered as unto strife; 30 

They breathed upon his mouth. 

They filled his body with life; 
Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein, 
A time for labor and thought, 35 

A time to serve and to sin; 
They gave him light in his ways, 

And love, and a space for delight, 



SWINBURNE 



787 



And beauty and length of days, 

And night, and sleep in the night. 40 
His speech is a burning fire; 

With his lips he travaileth; 
In his heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death; 
He weaves, and is clothed with de- 
rision ; 45 

Sows, and he shall not reap; 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 



A MATCH 

If love were what the rose is, 

And I were like the leaf, 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing weather. 
Blown fields or flowerful closes, 5 

Green pleasure or gray grief; 
If love were what the rose is, 

And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are, 

And love were like the tune, 10 

With double sound and single 

Delight our lips would mingle. 

With kisses glad as birds are 
That get sweet rain at noon; 

If I were what the words are, 15 

And love were like the tune. 

If you were life, my darling, 
And I your love were death. 

We'd shine and snow together 

Ere March made sweet the weather 20 

With daffodil and starling 
And hours of fruitful breath; 

If you were life, my darling. 
And I your love were death. 



If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy, 
We'd play for lives and seasons 
With loving looks and treasons 
And tears of night and morrow 

And laughs of maid and boy; 
If you were thrall to sorrow. 
And I were page to joy. 

If you were April's lady. 

And I were lord in May, 
We'd throw with leaves for hours 
And draw for days with flowers, 



25 



30 



35 



Till day like night were shady 
And night were bright like day; 

If you were April's lady, 

And I were lord in May. 40 

If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain. 
We'd hunt down love together, 
Pluck out his flying-feather. 
And teach his feet a measure, 45 

And find his mouth a rein; 
If you were queen of pleasure. 

And I were king of pain. 



TO WALT WHITMAN IN AMERICA 

Send but a song oversea for us. 
Heart of their hearts who are free, 

Heart of their singer, to be for us 
More than our singing can be; 

Ours, in the tempest at error, 5 

With no light but the twilight of terror; 
Send us a song oversea! 

Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses. 
And blown as a tree through and through 

With the winds of the keen mountain- 
passes, 10 
And tender as sun-smitten dew; 

Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes 

The wastes of your limitless lakes, 
Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue. 

O strong- winged soul with prophetic 15 
Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song. 

With tremor of heartstrings magnetic 
With thoughts as thundeis in throng. 

With consonant ardors of chords 

That pierce men's souls as with swords 20 
And hale them hearing along, 

Make us too music, to be with us 

As a word from a world's heart warm. 

To sail the dark as a sea with us. 
Full-sailed, outsinging the storm, 25 

A song to put fire in our ears 

Whose burning shall bum up tears 
Whose sign bid battle reform; 

A note in the ranks of a clarion, 

A word in the wind of cheer, 3c 

To consume as with lightning the carrion 
That makes time foul for us here: 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



In the air that our dead things infest 
A blast of the breath of the west, 
Till east way as west way is clear. 35 

Out of the sun beyond sunset, 

From the evening whence morning shall 
be, 
With the rollers in measureless onset. 
With the van of the storming sea. 
With the world-wide wind, with the 
breath 40 

That breaks ships driven upon death. 
With the passion of all things free, 

With the sea-steeds footless and frantic. 
White myriads for death to bestride 

In the charge of the ruining Atlantic, 45 
Where deaths by regiments ride. 

With clouds and clamors of waters. 

With a long note shriller than slaughter's' 
On the furrowless fields world-wide, 

With terror, with ardor and wonder, 50 
With the soul of the season that wakes 

When the weight of a whole year's thunder 
In the tidestream of autumn breaks, 

Let the flight of the wide-winged word 

Come over, come in and be heard, 55 

Take form and fire for our sakes. 

For a continent bloodless with travail 
Here toils and brawls as it can, 

And the web of it who shall unravel 
Of all that peer on the plan; 60 

Would fain grow men, but they grow 
not. 

And fain be free, but they know not 
One name for freedom and man. 

One name, not twain, for division; 

One thing, not twain, from the birth; 65 
Spirit and substance and vision. 

Worth more than worship is worth; 
Unbeheld, unadored, undivined. 
The cause, the center, the mind. 

The secret and sense of the earth. 70 

Here as a weakling in irons, 

Here as a weanling in bands, 
As a prey that the stake-net environs, 

Our life that we looked for stands; 
And the man-child naked and dear, 75 
Democracy, turns on us here 

Eyes trembling with tremulous hands. I 



It sees not what season shall bring to it 
Sweet fruit of its bitter desire; 

Few voices it hears yet sing to it, 80 

Few pulses of hearts reaspire; 

Foresees not time, nor forehears 

The noises of imminent years. 

Earthquake, and thunder, and fire: 84 

When crowned and weaponed and curb- 
less 

It shall walk without helm or shield 
The bare burnt furrows and herbless 

Of war's last flame-stricken field, 
Till godlike, equal with time. 
It stand in the sun sublime, 90 

In the godhead of man revealed. 

Round your people and over them 

Light like raiment is drawn, 
Close as a garment to cover them 

Wrought not of mail nor of lawn; 95 
Here, with hope hardly to wear. 
Naked nations and bare 

Swim, sink, strike out for the dawn. 

Chains are here, and a prison. 

Kings, and subjects, and shame; 100 
If the God upon you be arisen. 

How should our songs be the same? 
How, in confusion of change, 
How shall we sing, in a strange 

Land, songs praising his name? 105 

God is buried and dead to us, 

Even the spirit of earth. 
Freedom; so have they said to us 

Some with mocking and mirth. 
Some with heartbreak and tears; no 

And a God without eyes, without ears. 

Who shall sing of him, dead in the 
birth? 

The earth-god Freedom, the lonely 
Face lightening, the footprint unshod. 

Not as one man crucified only, 115 

Nor scourged with but one life's rod; 

The soul that is substance of nations. 

Reincarnate with fresh generations; 
The great god Man, which is God. 

But in weariest of years and obscurest 120 
Doth it live not at heart of all things, 

The one God and one spirit, a purest 
Life, fed from unstanchable springs? 



SWINBURNE 



789 



Within love, within hatred it is, 
And its seed in the stripe as the kiss, 125 
And in slaves is the germ, and in 
kings. 

Freedom we call it, for holier 
Name of the soul's there is none; 

Surelier it labors, if slowlier, 

Than the meters of star or of sun; 130 

Slowlier than life into breath, 

Surelier than time into death, 
It moves till its labor be done. 

Till the motion be done and the measure 
Circling through season and clime, 135 

Slumber and sorrow and pleasure, 
Vision of virtue and crime; 

Till consummate with conquering eyes, 

A soul disembodied, it rise 

From the body transfigured of time. 140 

Till it rise and remain and take station 
With the stars of the worlds that re- 
joice; 

Till the voice of its heart's exultation 
Be as theirs an invariable voice; 

By no discord of evil estranged, 145 

By no pause, by no breach in it changed. 
By no clash in the chord of its choice. 

It is one with the world's generations. 

With the spirit, the star, and the sod; 
With the kingless and king-stricken na- 
tions, 150 
With the cross, and the chain, and the 
rod; 
The most high, the most secret, most 

lonely, 
The earth-soul Freedom, that only 
Lives, and that only is God. 



AFTER SUNSET 

If light of life outlive the set of sun 
That men call death and end of all things, 

then 
How should not that which life held best 

for men 
And proved most precious, though it 

seem undone 
By force of death and woful victory won, 5 
Be first and surest of revival, when 
Death shall bow down to life arisen again? 



So shall the soul seen be the self-same 

one 
That looked and spake with even such 

lips and eyes 
As love shall doubt not then to recognize, 
And all bright thoughts and smiles of all 

time past n 

Revive, transfigured, but in spirit and 

sense 
None other than we knew, for evidence 
That love's last mortal word was not his 

last. 



ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS 
CARLYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT 

Two souls diverse out of our human sight 
Pass, followed one with love and each with 

wonder: 
The stormy sophist with his mouth of 

thunder. 
Clothed with loud words and mantled in 

the might 
Of darkness and magnificence of night; 5 
And one whose eye could smite the night 

in sunder. 
Searching if light or no light were there- 
under. 
And found in love of loving-kindness light. 
Duty divine and Thought with eyes of 

fire 
Still following Righteousness with deep 

desire 10 

Shone sole and stem before her and above. 
Sure stars and sole to steer by; but more 

sweet 
Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earthly 

feet, — 
The light of little children, and their love. 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 

Crowned, girdled, garbed, and shod with 

light and fire. 
Son first-born of the morning, sovereign 

star! 
Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most 

far, 
Most far off in the abysm of time, thy 

lyre 
Hung highest above the dawn-enkindled 

quire 5 



790 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Where all ye sang together, all that are, 
And all the starry songs behind thy car 
Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee 

sire. 
"If all the pens that ever poets held 
Had fed the feeling of their masters' 

thoughts," lo 

And as with rush of hurtling chariots 
The flight of all their spirits were impelled 
Toward one great end, thy glory — nay, not 

then, 
Not yet might 'st thou be praised enough of 

men. 

BEN JONSON 

Broad-based, broad-fronted, bounteous, 

multiform. 
With many a valley impleached with ivy 

and vine. 
Wherein the springs of all the streams 

run wine. 
And many a crag full-faced against the 

storm. 
The mountain where thy Muse's feet 

made warm 5 

Those lawns that revelled with her dance 

divine 
Shines yet with fire as it was wont to 

shine 
From tossing, torches round the dance 

a-swarm. 
Nor less, high-stationed on the gray grave 

heights, 
High-thoughted seers with heaven's heart- 
kindling lights lo 
Hold converse: and the herd of meaner 

things 
Knows or by fiery scourge or fiery shaft 
When wrath on thy broad brows has risen, 

and laughed 
Darkening thy soul with shadow of thun- 
derous wings. 

GEORGE MEREDITH (1828-1909) 
LOVE IN THE VALLEY 

Under yonder beech-tree single on the 

greensward, 
Couched with her arms behind her 

golden head, 
Knees and tresses folded to slip and 

ripple idly, 



Lies my young love sleeping in the 
shade. 
Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath 
her, 5 

Press her parting lips as her waist I 
gather slow. 
Waking in amazement she could not but 
embrace me: 
Then would she hold me and never let 
me go? 

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the 
swallow. 
Swift as the swallow along the river's 
light, lo 

Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored 
winglets. 
Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her 
flight. 
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the 
pine-tops, 
Wayward as the swallow overhead at set 
of sun. 
She whom I love is hard to catch and 
conquer; 15 

Hard, but oh, the glory of the winning 
were she won! 

When her mother tends her before the 
laughing mirror, 
Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, 
Often she thinks, were this wild thing 
wedded. 
More love should I have, and much less 
care. 20 

When her mother tends her before the 
lighted mirror. 
Loosening her laces, combing down her 
curls, 
Often she thinks, were this wild thing 
wedded, 
I should miss but one for many boys and 
girls. 

Heartless she is as the shadow in the 

meadows 25 

Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy 

noon. 
No, she is athirst and drinking up her 

wonder; 
Earth to her is young as the slip of the 

new moon. 
Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid 

measure, 



MEREDITH 



791 



Even as in a dance; and her smile can 
heal no less: 30 

Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts 
the flowers with hailstones 

Off a sunny border, she was made to 
bruise and bless. 

Lovely are the curves of the white owl 
sweeping 
Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. 
Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note un- 
varied, _ 35 
Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown 
evejar. 
Darker grows the valley, more and more 
forgetting: 
So were it with me if forgetting could be 
willed. 
Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bub- 
bling well-spring, 
Tell it to forget the source that keeps it 
filled. 40 

Stepping down the hill with her fair com- 
panions, 

• Arm in arm, all against the raying West, 

Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she 
marches. 
Brave is her shape, and sweeter un- 
possessed. 

Sweeter, for she is what my heart first 
awaking 45 

Whispered the world was; morning light 
is she. 

Love that so desires would fain keep her 
changeless; 
Fain would fling the net, and fain have 
her free. 

Happy, happy time, when the white star 
hovers 
Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy 
dew, 50 

Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart 
the darkness, 
Threading it with color, like yewberries 
the yew. 
Thicker crowd the shades as the grave 
East deepens 
Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud 
swells. 
Maiden still the morn is; and strange she 
is, and secret; 55 

Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as 
cold sea-shells. 



Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and 
lighting 
Wild cloud-mountains that drag the 
hills along. 
Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant 
laughter 
Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. 60 
Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple- 
feathered bosom 
Blown to silver while the clouds are 
shaken and ascend, 
Scahng the mid-heavens as they stream, 
there comes a sunset 
Rich, deep like love in beauty without 
end. 

When at dawn she sighs, and like an in- 
fant to the window 65 
Turns grave eyes craving light, released 
from dreams, 
Beautiful she looks, like a white water- 
lily. 
Bursting out of bud in havens of the 
streams. 
When from bed she rises clothed from neck 
to ankle 
In her long nightgown sweet as boughs 
of May, 70 
Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden- 

lily, 

Pure from the night, and splendid for 
the day. 

Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twi- 
light. 
Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's 
brim. 
Rounding on thy breast sings the dew- 
delighted skylark, 75 
Clear as though the dew-drops had their 
voice in him. 
Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the 
rayless planet, 
Fountain-full he pours the spraying 
fountain-showers. 
Let me hear her laughter, I would have her 
ever 
Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above 
the flowers. 80 

All the girls are out with their baskets for 
the primrose; 
Up lanes, woods through, they troop in 
joyful bands. 



792 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



My sweet leads: she knows not why, but 
now she loiters, 
Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her 
hands. 
Such a look will tell that the violets are 
peeping, 85 

Coming the rose; and unaware a cry 
Springs in her bosom for odors and for 
color. 
Covert and the nightingale; she knows 
not why. 

Kerchiefed head and chin she darts be- 
tween her tulips, 
Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy 
rain: 90 

Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and 
their angel 
She will be; she lifts them, and on she 
speeds again. 
Black the driving raincloud breasts the 
iron gateway; 
She is forth to cheer a neighbor lacking 
mirth. 
So when sky and grass met rolling dumb 
for thunder 95 

Saw I once a white dove, sole light of 
earth. 

Prim little scholars are the flowers of her 
garden. 
Trained to stand in rows, and asking 
if they please. 
I might love them well but for loving more 
the wild ones; 
O my wild ones ! they tell me more than 
these. 100 

You, my wild one, you tell of honied field- 
rose, 
Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and 
even as they. 
They by the wayside are earnest of your 
goodness, 
You are of life's on the banks that line 
the way. 

Peering at her chamber the white crowns 
the red rose, 105 

Jasmine winds the porch with stars two 
and three. 
Parted is the window; she sleeps; the 
starry jasmine 
Breathes a falling breath that carries 
thoughts of me. 



Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my 
sweetest? 
Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the 
jasmine breathes, no 

Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry 
jasmine 
Bears me to her pillow under white 
rose-wreaths. 

Yellow with birdfbot-trefoil are the grass- 
glades; 
Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray 
leaf; 
Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds 
are yellow; 115 

Blue-necked the wheat sways, yellowing 
to the sheaf. 
Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the 
laughing yaffle. 
Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade 
and shine: 
Earth in her heart laughs looking at the 
heavens, 
Thinking of the harvest: I look and 
think of mine. 120 

This I may know: her dressing and un- 
dressing 
Such a change of light shows as when 
the skies in sport 

Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging 
over thunder 
Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into 
port 

White sails furl; or on the ocean bor- 
ders 125 ■ 
White sails lean along the waves leaping 
green. 

Visions of her shower before me, but 
from eyesight 

Guarded she would be like the sun were 
she seen. 

Front door and back of the mossed old 
farmhouse 
Open with the mom, and in a breezy 
link 130 

Freshly sparkles garden to stripe- 
shadowed orchard, 
Green across a rill where on sand the 
minnows wink. 
Busy in the grass the early sun of summer 
Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow 
fluting notes 



MEREDITH 



793 



Call my darling up with round and roguish 
challenge: 135 

Quaintest, richest carol of all the sing- 
ing throats! 

Cool was the woodside; cool as her white 
dairy 
Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there 
the boys from school, 
Cricketing below, rushed brown and red 
with sunshine; 
O the dark translucence of the deep- 
eyed cool! 140 
Spying from the farm, herself she fetched 
a pitcher 
Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn 
the beak. 
Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tip- 
toe, 
Said, "I will kiss you:" she laughed, and 
leaned her cheek. 

Doves of the fir-wood walling high our 
red roof 145 

Through the long noon coo, crooning 
through the coo. 
Loose droop the leaves, and down the 
sleepy roadway 
Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose 
droops the blue. 
Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the 
river, 
Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and 

fly, , . 150 

Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her no- 
where, 
Lightning may come, straight rains and 
tiger sky. 

O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure- 
armful ! 
the nutbrown tresses nodding inter- 
laced ! 
the treasure-tresses one another over 155 
Nodding! the girdle slack about the 
waist ! 
Slain are the poppies that shot their 
random scarlet 
Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound 
about the waist. 
Gathered, see these brides of Earth one 
blush of ripeness! 
O the nutbrown tresses nodding inter- 
laced! 160 



Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk 
drops. 
Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded 
snow: 
Eastward large and still lights up a bower 
of moonrise. 
Whence at her leisure steps the moon 
aglow. 
Nightlong on black print-branches our 
beech-tree 165 

Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could 
I. 
Here may Ufa on death or death on life be 
painted. 
Let me clasp her soul to know she can- 
not die! 

Gossips count her faults ! they scour a nar- 
row chamber 
Where there is no window, read not 
heaven or her. 170 

"When she was a tiny," one aged woman 
quavers. 
Plucks at my heart and leads me by the 
ear. 
Faults she had once as she learned to run 
and tumbled: 
Faults of feature some see, beauty not 
complete. 
Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes 
holy 175 

Earth and air, may have faults from 
head to feet. 

Hither she comes; she comes to me; she 
lingers. 
Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in 
new surprise 
High rise the lashes in wonder of a stran- 
ger; 
Yet am I the light and living of her 
eyes. 180 

Something friends have told her fills her 
heart to brimming, 
Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, 
and tames. — 
Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, 
Arms up, she dropped; our souls were in 
our names. 

Soon will she lie like a white frost sun- 
rise. 185 
Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley 
pale as rye. 



794 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



Long since your sheaves have yielded to 
the thresher, 
Felt the girdle loosened, seen the tresses 

fly- 

Soon will she lie like a blood-red sun- 
set. 
Swift with the to-morrow, green-winged 
Spring! 190 

Sing from the South-west, bring her back 
the truants. 
Nightingale and swallow, song and dip- 
ping wing. 

Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April 
Spreading bough on bough a primrose 
mountain, you, 
Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the sky- 
fields, 195 
Youngest green transfused in silver shin- 
ing through: 
Fairer than the lily, than the wild white 
cherry : 
Fair as in image my seraph love ap- 
pears 
Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at 
my eyelids; 
Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on 
tears. 200 

Could I find a place to be alone with 
heaven, 
I would speak my heart out: heaven is 
my need. 
Every woodland tree is flushing like the 
dogwood, 
Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying 
like the reed. 
Flushing like the dogwood crimson in 
October; 205 

Streaming like the flag-reed south-west 
blown; . 
Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted 
whitebeam: 
All seem to know what is for heaven 
alone. 



JUGGLING JERRY 

Pitch here the tent, while the old horse 
grazes : 

By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. 
It's nigh my last above the daisies: 

My next leaf'll be man's blank page. 



Yes, my old girl ! and it's no use crying: s 
Juggler, constable, king, must bow. 

One that outjuggles all's been spying 
Long to have me, and he has me now. 

We've travelled times to this old common:: 

Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. 
We've had a stirring life, old woman, 11. 

You, and I, and the old gray horse. 
Races, and fairs, and royal occasions. 

Found us coming to their call: , 

Now they'll miss us at our stations: 15; 

There's a Juggler outjuggles all! 

Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! 

Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.. 
Easy to think that grieving's folly. 

When the hand's firm as driven, 
stakes ! 
Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and 
manful, 21 

Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a 
batch 
Born to become the Great Juggler's 
han'ful: 
Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. 

Here's where the lads of the village 
cricket: 25 

I was a lad not wide from here: 
Couldn't I whip off the bale from the 
wicket? 
Like an old world those days appear! 
Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale- 
house — I know them ! 
They are old friends of my halts, and 
seem, 30 

Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: 
Juggling don't hinder the heart's es,- 
teem. 

Juggling 's no sin, for we must have 
victual : 
Nature allows us to bait for the fool. 
Holding one's own makes us juggle no 
little; _ _ _ _ 35 

But, to increase it, hard juggling's the 
rule. 
You that are sneering at my profession, 
Haven't you juggled a vast amount? 
There's the Prime Minister, in one Ses- 
sion, 
Juggles more games than my sins'll 
count. 40 



MEREDITH 



795 



I've murdered insects with mock thunder: 

Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. 
I've made bread from the bump of wonder: 

That's my business, and there's my tale. 
Fashion and rank all praised the profes- 
sor: 45 

Ay! and I've had my smile from the 
Queen : 46 

Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! 

Ain't this a sermon on that scene? 

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy 

Close, and, I reckon, rather true. 50 
Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy: 

Most, a dash between the two. 
But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me 

Think more kindly of the race: 
And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes 
me 55 

When the Great Juggler I must face. 

We two were married, due and legal: 

Honest we've lived since we've been 
one. 
Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: 

You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. 60 
Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! 

All night we kissed, we juggled all day. 
Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! 

Now from his old girl he's juggled away. 

It's past parsons to console us : 65 

No, nor no doctor fetch for me: 
I can die without my bolus; 

Two of a trade, lass, never agree! 
Parson and Doctor!— don't they love 
rarely, 

Fighting the devil in other men's 

fields! 70 

Stand up yourself and match him fairly: 

Then see how the rascal yields! 

I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting 

Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: 
Coin I've stored, and you won't be want- 
ing: 75 
You shan't beg from the troughs and 
tubs. 
Nobly you've stuck to me, though in 
his kitchen 
Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! 
Palaces you could have ruled and grown 
rich in. 
But your old Jerry you never forsook. So 



Hand up the chirper!^ ripe ale winks in 
it; 
Let's have comfort and be at peace. 
Once a stout draught made me light as a 
linnet. 
Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. 
May be — for none see in that black 
hollow — 85 

It's just a place where we're held in 
pawn, 
And, when the Great Juggler makes as to 
swallow, 
It's just the sword-trick — I ain't quite 
gone. 

Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, 
Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of 
May. 90 

Better than mortar, brick, and putty. 
Is God's house on a blowing day. 
Lean me more up the mound; now I feel 
it: 
All the old heath-smells! Ain't it 
strange? 
There's the world laughing, as if to con- 
ceal it, 95 
But He's by us, juggling the change. 

I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying. 
Once — it's long gone — ^when two gulls 
we beheld, 
Which, as the moon got up, were flying 
Down a big wave that sparkled and 
swelled. 100 

Crack went a gun: one fell: the second 
Wheeled round him twice, and was ofif 
for new luck: 
There in the dark her white wing beck- 
oned : — 
Drop me a kiss — I'm the bird dead- 
struck! 



LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT 

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. 
Tired of his dark dominion, swung the 

fiend 
Above the rolling ball in cloud part 

screened. 
Where sinners hugged their specter of 

repose. 
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. 5 

' "chirping," or cheering, cup. 



796 THE VICTORIAN AGE 


And now upon his western wing he 


With memory of the old revolt from Awe, 


leaned, 


He reached a middle height, and at the 


Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands 


stars, II 


careened, 


Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, 


Now the black planet shadowed Arctic 


and sank. 


snows. 


Around the ancient track marched, rank 


Soaring through wider zones that pricked 


on rank, 


his scars 


The army of unalterable law. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Addison, Joseph 239 

Arnold, Matthew 685 

Bacon, Francis 107 

Ballads, English and Scottish Popular 32 

Ballads, Loyalist Stall 191 

Beaumont, Francis 90 

Blair, Robert 337 

Blake, William 383 

Boswell, James 301 

Bowles, William Lisle 387 

Browne, Sir Thomas 128 

Browne, William ^ 91 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 632 

Browning, Robert 603 

Burke, Edmund 322 

Burns, Robert 366 

Byron, George Gordon, Lord 446 

Campbell, Thomas 508 

Campion, Thomas 83 

Carew, Thomas 115 

Carlyle, Thomas 644 

Chatterton, Thomas 354 

Chaucer, Geoffrey i 

Clough, Arthur Hugh 683 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 417 

CoUins, William 339 

Cowley, Abraham 126 

Cowper, William 360 

Crabbe, George 385 

Crashaw, Richard 121 

Daniel, Samuel 72 

Defoe, Daniel 214 

Dekker, Thomas • 84 

DeQuincey, Thomas 551 

Donne, John 88 

Drayton, Michael 72, 85 

Dryden, John 195 

Dyer, Sir Edward 76 

Fergusson, Robert 353 

Fitzgerald, Edward 636 

Fletcher, John 90 

Fuller, Thomas ^ 132 

Goldsmith, Oliver 279 

Gray, Thomas 342 

Greene, Robert 77 

Hazlitt, William 533 

Herbert, George 1 20 

Herrick, Robert 117 

Hood, Thomas 510 

Howard, Henr>', Earl of Surrej' 69 

Huxley, Thomas Henry 720 

Johnson, Samuel 290 

Jonson, Ben 86 



Keats, John . 



Lamb, Charles 512 

Landor, Walter Savage 566 

Lodge, Thomas 78 

Lovelace, Richard 116 

Lyly, John 77, 97 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Lord 675 

Macpherson, James 352 

Malory, Sir Thomas 44 

Marlowe, Christopher 78 

Marvell, Andrew 124 

Meredith, George 790 

Milton, John , 145 

Moore, Thomas 508 

Morris, William 746 

Nash, Thomas 79 

Newman, John Henry, Cardinal 728 

Noah's Flood 27 

North, Sir Thomas 91 

Pater, Walter Horatio 760 

Peele, George 77 

Pepys, Samuel 187 

Piers the Plowman 26 

Pope, Alexander 260 

Raleigh, Sir Walter 79, 103 

Ramsay, Allan 332 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 740 

Ruskin, John 657 

Sackville, Charles, Earl of Dorset 127 

Scott, Sir Walter .^ 441 

Shakespeare, William 72, 80 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 471 

Shirley, James 117 

Sidney, Sir Philip 69, 76, 100 

Southey, Robert 440 

Southwell, Robert 80 

Spenser, Edmund 49, 71 

Steele, Sir Richard 240 

Stevenson, Robert Louis 780 

Suckling, Sir John 116 

Swift, Jonathan 226 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles 784 

Taylor, Jeremy 142 

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 568 

Thomson, James 333 

Vaughan, Henry 123 

Waller, Edmund 1 24 

Walton, Izaak 137 

Webster, John 91 

Wither, George 115 

Wolfe, Charles 509 

Wordsworth, William 389 

Wyatt, Sir Thomas 69 



490 Young, Edward . 
883 



336 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Absalom and Achitophel 195 

Abt Vogler 627 

Addison (Johnson's Life of) 298 

Address to the Unco Guid 373 

Adonais 479 

Ae Fond Kiss 381 

^s Triplex 780 

" After long storms and tempests' sad assay" 71 

After Sunset 789 

Agincourt 85 

Alexander's Feast 209 

All Is Well 684 

Amoretti 71 

Andrea del Sarto 623 

Apologia pro Vita Sua 739 

Apparition of Mrs. Veal, The 221 

Areopagitica 181 

Argument of His Book, The 117 

Ask Me no More Where Jove Bestows 115 

Astrophel and Stella 69 

Atalanta in Calydon: Choruses 785 

Atalanta's Race 747 

At the Grave of Burns 409 

Auguries of Innocence 385 

Auld Lang Syne 378 

Austerity of Poetry, The 706 

Back and Side Go Bare, Go Bare 75 

Balade de Bon Conseyl 25 

Bamborough Castle 388 

Bard, The 347 

Beau Tibbs at Home (Citizen of the World) 287 

Ben Jonson 790 

Biographia Literaria 436 

Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's 

Church, The 621 

Blessed Damozel, The 740 

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind 81 

Boat Song 442 

Bonie Doon 380 

Bon lie George Campbell 43 

Bonny Dundee 445 

Borough, The 387 

Break, Break, Break 589 

Bridge of Sighs, The 510 

Bright Star! Would I Were Steadfast as Thou 

Art 508 

Brignall Banks 444 

Bristowe Tragedie 354 

Bugle Song 589 

Burial of Sir John Moore, The 509 

Burning Babe, The 80 

By an Evolutionist 601 

Campaign, The 239 

Canterbury Tales, The 

The Prologue i 

The Nun's Priest's Tale 11 

The Pardoner's Tale 19 

Care-Charmer Sleep 72 

Care-Charming Sleep 91 



PAGE 

Carthon 353 

Castaway, The 365 

Castle of Indolence, The 335 

Cath-Loda 352 

Cavalier Tunes 

Marching Along '. 603 

Give a Rouse 603 

Boot and Saddle 604 

Chance and Change 84 

Change, The 126 

Character of a Roundhead, The 192 

Character of the Happy Warrior 411 

Charge of the Light Brigade, The 594 

Cherry-Ripe 84 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 

Canto iii 452 

Canto iv ; 456 

Christopher Marlowe 789 

Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago 512 
Citizen of the World, Essays from The 

Beau Tibbs at Home 287 

A Visit to a Silk Merchant 289 

Clod and the Pebble, The 384 

Cloud, The 474 

Club, The (Spectator) 248 

Collar, The 120 

Come, Cheerful Day 83 

Come, Drawer, Some Wine 192 

"Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of 

peace" 70 

Come, Thou Monarch of the Vine 82 

Come unto These Yellow Sands 82 

Complaint of Chaucer to his Empty Purse, 

The 25 

Complete Angler, The 137 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sep- 
tember 3, 1802 416 

Conclusion, The 80 

Confessions of an English Opium-Eater 551 

Constancy 116 

Contented wi' Little and Cantie wi' Mair. . . . 382 

Coquette's Heart, A (Spectator) 258 

Corinna's Going A-Maying 117 

Coronach 443 

Cotter's Saturday Night, The 370 

County Guy 445 

Cradle Song 384 

Cromwell's Letters and Speeches 655 

Crossing the Bar 603 

Cry of the Children, The 633 

Cupid and Campaspe 77 

Cupid's Curse 77 

Daft Days, The 353 

Death 90 

Death of Artemidora, The 566 

Death of Caesar, The 91 

Defense of Poesj^ The 100 

Dejection: an Ode 433 

Description of Spring 69 



885 



886 



INDEX OF TITLES 



PAGE 

Deserted Village, The 279 

Destruction of Sennacherib, The 447 

Diary: Samuel Pepys 187 

Dirge, A ("Call for the robin-redbreast") . . 91 
Dirge, A (" The glories of our blood and state") 117 

Dissertation upon Roast Pig, A 525 

Don Juan 

Dedication 460 

Canto iii 460 

Canto iv 463 

Dover Beach 709 

Dream-Children: A Reverie 519 

Dream of Fair Women, A 575 

Dryden (Johnson's Life of) 297 

Duelling (Tatler) 241 

Duncan Gray 381 

Eagle, The 592 

Earthly Paradise, The 

An Apology 746 

Prologue 746 

Atalanta's Race 747 

Edward 32 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard .... 343 

Endymion 490 

Epilogue to Asolando 632 

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, The 278 

Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, An 88 

Essays: Bacon 

Of Truth 107 

Of Adversity 108 

Of Marriage and Single Life 109 

Of Great Place 109 

Of Wisdom for a Man's Self iii 

Of Youth and Age 112 

Of Gardens 112 

Of Studies 114 

Essay of Dramatic Poesy, An 211 

Essay on Criticism, An 262 

Essay on Man, An 276 

Even Such Is Man 90 

Eve of St. Agnes, The 496 

Expostulation and Reply 392 

Faerie Queene, The 

Letter to Raleigh 49 

Book I, Canto i 51 

Canto iii 56 

Canto xi 57 

Fatal Sisters, The 349 

Fear no More the Heat o' the Sun 82 

Fight, The 533 

Flower in the Crannied Wall 596 

Flow Gently, Sweet Af ton 380 

Forsaken Merman, The 686 

France : an Ode 417 

"Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty 

king" 71 

" From you have I been absent in the spring" 74 

Frost at Midnight 430 

Frozen Words (Tatler) 244 

Full Fathom Five Thy Father Lies 83 

"Full many a glorious morning have I seen" 73 

Garden of Proserpine, The 784 

Go and Catch a Falling Star 88 

Go Fetch to Me a Pint o' Wine 379 

Go, Lovely Rose! 1 24 

Good Schoolmaster, The 132 

Grace for a Child 119 



PAGE 

Grammarian's Funeral, A 619 

Grave, The 337 

Gray (Johnson's Life of) 300 

Green Grow the Rashes 377 

Hark, Hark! the Lark 82 

Hark, Now Everything Is Still 91 

Harp of the North 443 

Harp That Once through Tara's Halls, The. . 509 
"Having this day my horse, my hand, my 

lance" 70 

Haystack in the Floods, The 758 

Hellas, Final Chorus from 488 

He That Loves a Rosy Cheek 115 

Hey Nonny No! 83 

Higher Pantheism, The 596 

Highland Mary 381 

Hind and the Panther, The 207 

His Pilgrimage 79 

Holy Dying 142 

Holy Fair, The 366 

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead .... 590 

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 607 

Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 607 

Hope 388 

Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from 

Ireland, An 124 

House of Life, The 

The Sonnet 745 

Lovesight 745 

Silent Noon 745 

A Superscription 745 

How Roses Came Red 118 

How They Brought the Good News from 

Ghent to Aix 605 

Humble Petition of the House of Commons, 

The 192 

Hunting of the Cheviot, The 39 

Hydriotaphia, or Urn Burial 128 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni 431 
Hymn ("The spacious firmament on high") 240 

Hymn to Diana 86 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 471 

Hyperion 502 

Idea of a University, The 728 

II Penseroso 147 

Impeachment of Warren Hastings, The 326 

In a Gondola 616 

Inchcape Rock, The 440 

Indian Serenade, The 474 

In Memoriam 590 

In the Holy Nativity of Our Lord God 121 

Intimations of Immortality 413 

Introduction to Songs of Innocence 383 

Iphigeneia and Agamemnon 567 

Ite Domum Saturae 684 

It was a Lover and His Lass 82 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 411 

Jock of Hazeldean 444 

John Anderson My Jo 379 

Jolly Beggars, The 382 

Journal to Stella, The 236 

Juggling Jerry 794 

Kemp Owyne 33 

Know Ye the Land? 446 

Kubla Khan 419 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 491 

Lady of Shalott, The 568 



INDEX OF TITLES 



PAGE 

L'Allegro 145 

Lamb, The 383 

Lass with a Lump of Land, The 332 

Last Fight of the Revenge, The 103 

Last Word, The 709 

Lawyers' Lamentation, The 193 

" Let me not to the marriage of true minds" . 75 

Letter to James Macpherson 294 

Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield 293 

Letters (Gray) 350 

Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow 561 

Life Is Struggle 684 

Life of Queen Elizabeth, The 134 

Life of Samuel Johnson, The 301 

"Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide" 71 
Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern 

Abbey 393 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 495 

Lines Printed under the Engraved Portrait 

of Milton 211 

Lines to John Lapraik 366 

Lines Written in Early Spring 392 

Litany in Time of Plague 79 

Literature and Science 709 

Little Black Boy, The 384 

Lives of the English Poets, The 

Milton 294 

Dryden ■. 297 

Addison 298 

Pope 299 

Gray 300 

Lochinvar 441 

Locksley Hall 584 

London, 1802 416 

Lost Leader, The 604 

Lotos-Eaters, The 574 

Love among the Ruins 614 

Love in the Valley 790 

Love Is Dead 76 

Lover Compareth His State to a Ship, The . . 69 

Love's Deity 89 

Lovesight 745 

"Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love 

to show" 69 

Lucifer in Starlight 795 

Lucy Gray 395 

Lullaby 85 

Lycidas 148 ' 

Lyrical Ballads, Preface to the 389 

Mac Flecknoe 204 

Man's a Man For A' That, A 382 

Mary Morison 377 

Match, A 787 

Maud 592 

Meeting at Night 606 

Memorabilia 615 

Merlin and the Gleam 601 

"Men call you fair, and you do credit it". . 72 

Michael 399 

Milton (Blake) 385 

Milton (Johnson's Life of) 294 

Modern Painters 657 

Modest Proposal, A 231 

Morte D'Arthur 579 

Morte Darthur, Le 

Preface of William Ca.xton .^ 44 

Book xxi 45 



PAGE 

Mr. Spectator (Spectator) 246 

Musical Instrument, A 636 

My Boat Is on the Shore 448 

My Days among the Dead Are Passed 441 

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold 406 

My Heart's in the Highlands 379 

My Last Duchess 615 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is 76 

Mynstrelle's Songe 359 

Ned Softly (Tatler) 242 

Night- Piece, to Julia 119 

Night Thoughts 336 

"No longer mourn for me when I 'am dead" 74 

Noah's Flood . . . .' 27 

Northern Farmer — ^Old Style, The 594 

Now Winter Nights Enlarge 84 

Nun's Priest's Tale, The 11 

Ode ("How Sleep the Brave") 339 

Ode for Ben Jonson, An 119 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College . . 342 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 493 

Ode on Melancholy 494 

Ode to a Nightingale 492 

Ode to Duty 411 

Ode to Evening 339 

Ode to the West Wind 472 

Qinone 570 

Of A' the Airts the Wind Can Blow 378 

Of Adversity 108 

Of Corinna's Singing 83 

Of Gardens 112 

Of Great Place 109 

Of Marriage and Single Life 109 

Of Studies 114 

Of Truth 107 

Of Wisdom for a Man's Self in 

Of Youth and Age 112 

Oft in the Stilly Night 509 

Oh, Breathe not His Name 509 

Oliver Goldsmith 675 

O Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roaming? 82 

On a Girdle 124 

" One day I wrote her name upon the strand" 71 

One Year Ago 566 

On Familiar Style 548 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer. . . 507 

On Going a Journey 542 

On His Blindness 152 

On His Deceased Wife 153 

On His Having Arrived at the Age of Twenty- 
Three 151 

On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday 568 

On Shakespeare 152 

On the Advisableness of Improving Natural 

Knowledge 720 

On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke .... 91 
On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and George 

Eliot ...789 

On the E.xtinction of the Venetian RepubUc. . 415 

On the Hellenics 567 

On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth. . . . 559 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 152 

On the Loss of the Royal George 360 

On the Receipt of My ^Mother's Picture 362 

On the Sea-Shore near Calais 416 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 90 

O Sweet Content 84 



INDEX OF TITLES 



PAGE 

Over Hill, over Dale 8i 

O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 383 

Ozymandias 472 

Paradise Lost 

Book i 153 

Book ii 165 

Book xii 180 

Pardoner's Tale, The 19 

Parting at Morning 606 

Passionate Shepherd to His Love, The 78 

Passions, The 340 

Past and Present 648 

Peace ' 123 

Peggy 332 

Philomela 687 

Piers the Plowman 26 

Pindaric Ode, A 88 

"Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth". . 75 

Pope (Johnson's Life of) 299 

Praise of Chimney Sweepers, The 521 

Preface to the Fables (Dryden) 213 

Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, The 389 

Prelude, The 396 

Princess, Songs from the 589 

Prisoner of Chillon, The 448 

Progress of Poesy, The 345 

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, The i 

Prometheus Unbound 478 

Prospectus (Tatler) 240 

Prospice 627 

Protecting Brewer, The 193 

Prothalamion 66 

Pulley, The 121 

Qua Cursum Ventus 683 

Queen Elizabeth 97 

Quip, The ■ 120 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 629 

Rambler, The 290 

Rape of the Lock, The 264 

Reflections on the Revolution in France .... 3 29 

Relation of Art to Morals, The 671 

Requiescat 688 

Resolution and Independence 406 

Retaliation, The 286 

Retreat, The 123 

Revenge, The 597 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The 419 

Rizpah 599 

Robin Hood 495 

Robin Hood and Guy of Gisbome 35 

Robin Hood's Death and Burial 38 

Rosalind's Madrigal 78 

Rose Aylmer 566 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 636 

Rugby Chapel 706 

Rule, Britannia 336 

Sappho to Hesperus 566 

Sartor Resartus 644 

Saul 607 

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth 685 

Scholar-Gipsy, The 688 

Scots Wha Hae 377 

Seasons, The 333 

Sephestia's Song to her Child 78 

Shakespeare 685 

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" 72 
Shall I, Wasting in Despair 115 



PAGE 

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways .... 396 

She Walks in Beauty 447 

She Was a Phantom of Delight 410 

Shortest Way with the Dissenters, The 216 

Sick Rose, The 385 

Silent Noon 745 

" Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor bound- 
less sea" 73 

Since There's no Help 72 

Sir Patrick Spens 34 

Sir Roger at Church (Spectator) 253 

Sir Roger at the Assizes (Spectator) 254 

Sister Helen 741 

Sketch of His Own Character (Gray) 350 

Sleep and Poetry 490 

Slumber Did My Spirit Seal, A 396 

Sohrab and Rustum 692 

Soldier, Rest 442 

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister 606 

Solitary Reaper, The 409 

Song for St. Cecilia's Day, A 208 

Song from Pippa Passes 603 

Song from Shakespeare's Cymbeline, A 339 

Song of the Shirt, The 511 

Songs from Shakespeare's Plays 80 

Songs of Selma, The 353 

Song: (To All You Ladies now at Land) .... 127 

Song to Bacchus : 91 

Song to Celia 86 

Sonnet, The 745 

Sonnet on Chillon 448 

Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin 364 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 632 

Sonnets: Milton 151 

Sonnets: Shakespeare 72 

So We'll Go no More A-Roving 448 

Spectator, Essays from The 

Mr. Spectator 246 

The Club 248 

Westminster Abbey 251 

Sir Roger at Church 253 

Sir Roger at the Assizes 254 

The Vision of Mirza 256 

A Coquette's Heart 258 

Spring's Welcome 77 

Stanzas for Music 447 

Stanzas Written in Dejection 476 

Stones of Venice, The 664 

Style 760 

Sunflower, The 385 

Superannuated Man, The 529 

Superscription, A 745 

Swallow, The 127 

Sweet Are the Thoughts 77 

Sweetest Love, I Do not Go 89 

Sweetest Melancholy . 90 

Tables Turned, The 392 

Take, O, Take Those Lips Away 82 

Tale of a Tub, The 226 

Tam Glen 378 

Tam O'Shanter 374 

Task, The 361 

Tatler, Essays from The 

Prospectus 240 

Duelling 241 

Ned Softly , 242 

Frozen Words 244 



INDEX OF TITLES 



PAGE 

Tears, Idle Tears 589 

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred 81 

"That time of year thou mayest in me 

behold" 74 

Thief, The 127 

Three Years She Grew 396 

Tiger, The ,• • ■ 385 

Time ("O Time! who knowest a lenient 

hand to lay") 387 

Time ("Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are 

years") 477 

Time and Tide 669 

Time I've Lost in Wooing, The 508 

"Tired with all these, for restful death I cry " 74 

To ("Music, when soft voices die") . 476 

To ("One word is too often pro- 
faned") 478 

To Age 568 

To All You Ladies now at Land 127 

To Althea, from Prison 116 

To a Mountain Daisy 369 

To a Mouse 369 

To a Sky-Lark ("Ethereal minstrel, pilgrim 

of the sky") 415 

To a Skylark ("Hail to thee, blithe spirit") . 475 

To Autumn 494 

To Cyriack Skinner 153 

To Daffodils 119 

To Keep a True Lent 119 

To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars 116 

To Make Charles a Great King 191 

To Mary 364 

To My Ninth Decade 568 

To Night 477 

To Robert Browning 566 

To the Cuckoo 410 

To the Electors of Bristol 322 

To the Lord General Cromwell 152 

To the Memory of my Beloved, Master 

- William Shakespeare 87 

To the River Tweed 388 

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 118 

To Toussaint I'Ouverture 417 

To Walt Whitman in America 787 

To Youth 568 

Triumph of Charis, The 87 

True-Born Englishman, The 214 



PAGE 

Ulysses 583 

Under the Greenwood Tree 81 

Universal Prayer, The 279 

Upon Julia's Clothes 119 

Upon the Loss of his Mistresses 117 

Village, The 385 

Virtue 1 20 

Visit to a Silk-Merchant, A (Citizen of the 

World) 289 

Vision of Mirza, The (Spectator) 256 

Walking with God 360 

Westminster Abbey (Spectator) 251 

"When I behold that beauty's wonderment" 71 

When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be . 507 
"When I have seen by Time's fell hand 

defaced" 73 

When Icicles Hang by the Wall 80 

"When, in disgrace with fortune and men's 

eyes" _ 73 

"When in the chronicle of wasted time". ... 75 

When the Lamp Is Shattered 488 

When Thou Must Home 83 

"When to the sessions of sweet silent 

thought " 73 

When We Two Parted 446 

Where Lies the Land 684 

Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck 1 83 

Who Is Silvia? 81 

Why So Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? 116 

Wife of Usher's Well, The 34 

Willie Brewed a Peck o' Maut 379 

Windsor Forest 260 

Wish, The 126 

With a Guitar, to Jane 489 

"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 

the skies" 70 

Wordsworth 772 

Work without Hope 436 

World, The 123 

World Is Too Much with Us, The 416 

World's Wanderers, The 477 

Written at Tynemouth after a Tempestuous 

Voyage 388 

Ye Mariners of England 508 

Yew Trees 408 

You Ask Me Why, Though 111 at Ease 579 

Youth and Age 435 



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By R. GARNETT, C.B., LL.D. 279 pp. 

The Age of Pope (1700-1744) 

By JOHN DENNIS 260 pp. 

The Age of Johnson (1748-1798) 

By THOMAS SECCOMBE 366 pp. 

The Age of Wordsworth (1798-1832) 

By PROFESSOR C. H. HERFORD, Litt.D. 315 PP- 

The Age of Tennyson (1830-1870) 

By HUGH WALKER 309 pp. 



CHRONOLOGICAL OUTLINES OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 

By FREDERICK RYLAND, M.A. 35/ pp., i2mo, $1.50 

A colorless outline within which details may be placed, and which may serve to bring 
into prominence the chronological relations of the facts they deal with. It is divided 
into two parts. Part I brings the annals of English literature into connection with 
general European literature and with history. Part II contains an alphabetical list of 
authors with their principal works. In addition the author has made an attempt toward 
settling uncertain dates in the case of works which were in circulation before the middle 
of the seventeenth century. 

THE HISTORY OF EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE 

Being the History of English Poetry from its beginnings to the accession of King Alfred 

By STOPFORD A. BROOKE 502 pp., 8vo, $2.50 

A comprehensive, critical account of early Anglo-Saxon poetry, written from a literary 
point of view, and with a desire to teach reverence and love for the early poetry of the 
Anglo-Saxon race. Critical and scientific questions, therefore, are not entered into 
unless necessary. In the translation the original has been rigidly followed, usually 
line for line, and the rhythm copies as closely as possible the movement and variety of 
the original verse. A notable feature of the work is the introduction of correlative 
matter which brings the reader into touch with the history of the country, giving life, 
color and reality to the time. 

MAIN CURRENTS IN 19TH CENTURY LITERATURE 

A critical exposition of the ebb and flow in world Literature during the 19th century 

By GEORGE BRANDES 

In six volumes. New edition. Illustrated. Gilt tops, 8vo. Each $2.00. The set, $7.50 

Vol. I. The Emigrant Literature. ig8 pp. 

Vol. 11. The Romantic School in Germany. 329 pp. 

Vol. III. The Reaction in France. 300 pp. 

Vol. IV. Naturalism in England. 366 pp. 

Vol. V. The Romantic School in France. jpjr pp. 

Vol. VI. Young Germany. 411 pp. 

AMERICAN LITERATURE 

By KATHARINE LEE BATES, 
Wellesley College, author of The English Religious Drama 

350 pp; i2mo, $1.00 
The aim of this volume is to show how essentially American literature has been an 
outgrowth of American life. Too many text-books treat it in one of its aspects only — 
as a branch of the parent hterature of England. Miss Bates sees it as an individual 
expression of an independent nation. The development of literature and the material 
and political progress of the country are happily interwoven. The subject-matter is 
divided into six chapters: "The Colonial Period," "The Revolutionary Period," "The 
National Era," "Its General Aspects," "Its Poetry," "Its Prose Thought," "Its Prose 
Fiction." The book contains a large number of portraits. 

CHRONOLOGICAL OUTLINES OF AMERICAN LITERATURE 

By SELDEN L. WHITCOMB, A.M. 

With an Introduction by 
BRANDER MATTHEWS 286 pp., i2mo, $1.50 

This work is built upon the scheme of Ryland's Chronological Outlines of English Litera- 
ture, but on account of the briefer history of American literature the author has been 
able to enlarge his list and to broaden his standard. 



THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE ENGLISH NOVEL 

By WILBUR L. CROSS, 
Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of Yale University 

J2Q pp., i2mo, $1.50 

An outline of the course of English fiction from Arthurian romance to Stevenson, 
indicating especially in the earlier chapters. Continental sources and tributaries. It is 
divided for convenience into the following chapters: i. From Arthurian Romance to 
Richardson; 2. The Eighteenth Century ReaHsts; 3. From Humphrey Clinker to 
Waverley; 4. Nineteenth Century Romance; 5. The Realistic Reaction; 6. The 
Return to Realism; 7. The Psychological Novel; 8. The Contemporary Novel. 
Immediately after the main text is a list of novels which show the general progress of 
English fiction, this being followed in turn by bibliographical and other notes for the 
use of more advanced students. Writing from a thorough knowledge of the subject, the 
author maintains a fine sense of proportion and judgment in his estimation of the 
various writers treated. The book is now recognized as the standard text for historical 
courses on the novel. 

THE EVOLUTION OF THE ENGLISH NOVEL 

By FRANCIS HOVEY STODDARD 

Professor of English Literature in New York University 

-35 PP-1 i2nio, $1.50 
In this work Professor Stoddard undertakes the study of five specific kinds of expres- 
sion in the fiction of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries: the novel of personality, 
the novel of history, the novel of romance, the novel of purpose, and the novel of prob- 
lem, showing, as far as it is possible to show in great movements of this kind, a certain 
evolution therein. The author says, "This law of tendency is, in general, that the depic- 
tion of the objective, carnal, precedes, in every form of expression of which we can have 
records, the consideration of the internal, the subjective, the spiritual." 

A HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY 

By W. J. COURTHOPE, M.A., D.Litt., 
Late Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford 

6 vols., 8vo. Each, $3.2 j 

Vol. I. Middle Ages: Influence of the Roman Empire — The Encyclopaedic Educa- 
tion of the Church — The Feudal System. 4J4 pp. 

Vol. 11. The Renaissance and the Reformation: Influence of the Court and the 
Universities. 42Q pp. 

Vol. III. The Intellectual Conflict of the 17th Century: Decadent Influence of the 
Feudal Monarchy; Growth of the National Genius. 5;^^ pp. 

Vol. IV. Development and Decline of the Poetic Drama: Influence of the Court 
and the People. 4^6 pp. 

Vol. V. The Constitutional Compromise of the i8th Century: Effects of the Classical 
Renaissance; Its Zenith and Decline; The Early Romantic Renaissance. 464 pp. 

Vol. VI. The Romantic Movement in Enghsh Poetry: Effects of the French Revolu- 
tion. 4JI pp. 

THE THEORY OF POETRY IN ENGLAND 

By R. p. COWL, M.A. 

Jig pp., i2mo, $1.2 j 

This volume covers the period from the middle of the sixteenth century to the close 
of the nineteenth, taking up the historical development of the general theory of poetry 
and the theoretical principles of the various schools of poetry and criticism. 



THE BEGINNINGS OF POETRY 

By FRANCIS B. GUMMERE, 

Professor of English in Haverford College 

482 pp., 8vo, $j.oo 

The author has given a definite account of the rise of poetry as a social institution. 
He has not dealt with the origins or ultimate causes of poetic expression, but with its 
earliest actual appearances. In an introductory chapter he presents the problem of 
such a work and his method of treating it. In the book proper, he has enlarged upon 
the following topics: Rhythm as the Essential Fact of Poetry; The Two Elements in 
Poetry; The Differencing Elements of the Poetry of Art; The Differencing Elements 
of Communal Poetry; Science and Communal Poetry; The Earliest Differentiations 
of Poetry; The Triumph of the Artist. 

A SHORT HISTORY OF ENGLISH VERSIFICATION 

By MAX KALUZA, Ph.D., 
Professor of English Language and Literature in the University of Konigsburg. Translated by 

A. C. DUNSTAN, Ph.D., 
English Lektor in the University of Konigsburg 

396 PP-, i2mo, $1.60 

A handbook for teachers and students covering the entire period of English Litera- 
ture from the earliest times to the present day. A strictly scientific account is given 
of the development of English Prosody, the extent to which it has been influenced by 
foreign models is shown, and nothing that is essential has been omitted. The sections 
on Old and Middle English Prosody have been treated fully. All the hypotheses with 
regard to the structure of the alliterative line, hitherto put forward, have been sum- 
marized, and, in many cases, shortly criticised. 

A HISTORY OF ENGLISH PROSODY. FROM THE 12TH 
CENTURY TO THE PRESENT DAY 

By GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A., LL.D., 

Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature in the University of Edinburgh 

J vols., 8vo. 

Vol. I. From Origins to Spenser. 4^8 pp., $3.00 

Vol. II. Shakespeare to Crabbe. 583 PP-, $4-oo 

Vol. HI. Blake to Swinburne. 562 pp., $4-oo 

MANUAL OF ENGLISH PROSODY 

By GEORGE SAINTSBURY 

34^ pp., i2mo, $1.50 

For students and for the general reader who does not care to use the three-volume 
work. It includes everything that is vital to a clear understanding of the subject. 

HISTORY OF ENGLISH PROSE RHYTHM 

By GEORGE SAINTSBURY 

Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature in the University of Edinburgh 

48g pp., 8w, $4.00 

Beginning with the early Greek and Roman prose writers and extending down to 
modern times, the author has shown the gradual growth of various forms of prose 
rhythm, and has illustrated this growth and its variations with selections from those 
Vv^riters who, in their time, were the most adept exponents of the rhythmic style. 



THE ENGLISH RELIGIOUS DRAMA 

Bv KATHARINE LEE BATES 

Wellesley College 2J4 pp.. ismo. $i.jo 

A short history of the beginnings of the European theatre and its origin in the early 

religious ceremonies. The old Latin Passion and Saint Plays, the miracle plays, and 

the morality plays with their gradual evolution into the Elizabethan secular drama are 

discussed. 

ENGLISH DRAMA OF THE RESTORATION AND EIGHTEENTH 

CENTURY 

By GEORGE HENRY NETTLETON 

Assistant Professor of English in Yale University 

j66 pp., i2mo, $i.jo 
In this volume there is presented for the first time a continuous and comprehensive 
account, both historical and critical, of the whole period of English drama from the 
closing of the theatres in 1642 to the height of eighteenth century comedy in Sheridan. 
Professor Nettleton includes an account not merely of formal tragedy and comedy, but 
also of opera, pantomime, burlesque, farce, etc. He also discusses the development of 
scenic, operatic and spectacular stage effects. In addition to a full study of Restoration 
drama, the following topics are treated: the origin and growth of English pantomime, 
of ballad-opera and of prose tragedy, the development of personal caricature and satiri- 
cal farce, the establishment of the formal dramatic censorship, the rise of sentimental 
drama and the Garrick era. The volume will serve admirably as a text-book for 
college courses on the drama. 

THE COMEDY OF MANNERS 

A History, 1664-17 20 

By JOHN PALMER 308 pp., 8vo, $3.25 

A systematic study of the five typical figures — Etherege, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, Con- 
greve and Farquhar, who together created the English Comedy of Manners. Guided 
by Mr. Palmer, one learns not only to appreciate the most spirituel phase of English 
literature, but also to know and understand the five writers of genius who gave it its 
character. 

THE SALON AND ENGLISH LETTERS 

Chapters on the Interrelations of Literature and Society in the Age of Johnson 
By CHAUNCEY BREWSTER TINKER 
Professor of English Literature in Yale University 2go pp., 8vo, $2.23 
A scholarly and interesting discussion of the interrelation of literature and society 
in the age of Johnson. The author traces the attempt made in England between 1760 
and 1790 to emulate the Hterary world of Paris by bringing men of letters and men of 
the world into closer relations and shows the results of this movement as they appear 
in the improved artistry of three or four types of writing. 

The material is arranged under the headings of: Part I. The French Background. 
Part II. The English Salon. Part III. The Social Spirit in English Letters. 

A HISTORY OF ENGLISH DRAMATIC LITERATURE TO THE 

DEATH OF QUEEN ANNE 

By ADOLPHUS WILLIAM WARD, Litt.D.. LL.D. 

Honorary Fellow of Peterhouse, Cambridge 

3 vols., gilt tops, 8vo. set Sg.oo 
Vol. I. Origin to Shakespeare. ^y^ pp. 

Vol. II. Shakespeare (cont.)-Beaumont and Fletcher. 766 pp- 

Vol. III. Philip Massinger-Steele. §gg pp. 



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